LONDONER'S 
LONDON 

WILFRED  WRITTEN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


A    LONDONER'S    LONDON 


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THK   RISIN(;   SUN   TAVERN    AND   HOOKSELLERS'   ROW 


HOW  GOOD  WAS  THK    OLD    KISING   SUN  TAVKKN,  CHEEK  BV  JOWL  WITH  A  BOOKSKLLKK  S 

FOUR-STORIED     HOUSE,    WITH    ITS    WOODEN    GALLERY    ATOP,    AND     ITS    OVERHANGING 

SIDE    IN    HOLYWELL  STREET   WHERE    YOU    Kt)RESAW   GOOD   DELAYS       (v.  9) 


A    LONDONER'S 
LONDON 


BY 


WILFRED   WRITTEN 

(''John  o'  London '') 


WITH    TWENTY-FOUR    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

FRANK  L.  EMANUEL 


METHUEN   &  CO.  LTD. 

36  EiSSEX  STREET  W.G. 

LONDON 


y/ 


First  Printed  in  igis 


TO 
T.    p.   O'CONNOR 


PREFACE 

A  WRITER  of  whom  the  first  John  Murray  de- 
manded a  preface  demurred  to  writing  one.  A 
preface,  he  said,  always  put  him  in  mind  of 
Hamlet's  exclamation  to  the  tardy  player,  "  Leave  thy 
damnable  faces,  and  begin  1"  I  delay  to  begin  only  to 
explain  that  the  London  of  these  pages  is  not  the 
measureless  town  of  the  guide-books  :  that  London 
on  which  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  Horace 
Walpole  began  a  book,  only  to  faint  and  fail :  that 
London  which,  still  earlier,  had  been  called  a  county 
covered  with  houses,  a  description  which  has  passed 
from  metaphor  to  fact.  The  Londoner's  true  London 
is  smaller.  It  is  the  sum  of  his  own  tracks  in  the 
maze,  the  town  in  which,  by  hap,  he  has  most  often 
eaten  his  bread  and  thought  his  thoughts.  Samuel 
Butler  remarks  in  his  published  note-books  that  he 
was  more  in  Fetter  Lane  than  in  any  other  street  of 
London,  and  that  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  the  British 
Museum,  the  Strand,  Fleet  Street,  and  the  Embank- 
ment came  next.  This  is  a  very  small  London,  to 
which  my  own  adds  the  City,  the  northern  suburbs, 
and  those  more  national  regions  of  Westminster  and 
the  Parks  which  may  be  called  Everyman's.    Although 

vil 


viii  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

the  reader's  intimacies  and  my  own  will  not  be  iden- 
tical, they  will  generously  overlap.  In  Chancery  Lane, 
in  the  Euston  Road,  in  Rotherhithe,  or  east  of  St. 
Paul's,  we  may  have  few  common  memories,  but  we 
may  find  these  in  the  Strand,  in  Regent  Street,  in 
Bloomsbury,  or  merry  Islington. 

While  my  limiting  clue  has  been  some  sort  of 
preference  or  eager  frequenting,  I  have  not  tried  to 
exhaust  the  associations  of  any  street  or  district, 
being  satisfied  to  follow  those  great  scribes  who,  when 
their  subject  overflowed,  passed  on  with  the  useful 
remark  that  all  the  rest  is  in  the  book  of  Jasher,  or  in 
the  book  of  Iddo  the  seer  concerning  genealogies. 

W.  W. 

The  Cock  Tavern,  Fleet  Street 
31  December,  191 2 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 
THE    VEILS    OF    YESTERDAY  .  .  .  .  .1 

The  Passing  of  Temple  Bar — London  in  1886 — The  Bearskins 
— Old  Holborn — John  Grey's  Cider  Cellar — Feudal  Blooms- 
bury— Halfpenny  Hatches— The  Wind  on  the  Heath— The 
"  Bull  and  Bush  "—Booksellers'  Row— The  Knife-board— The 
Lost  Wobble — The  Dignity  of  Carts — Leviathan  in  London — 
The  Evolution  of  the  Hansom — The  Exit  of  Cockneyism — 
Rural  Retreats — "  I  don't  like  London  " — A  Fogey's  Regrets — 
The  Advance  of  Bricks — How  London  Grows — A  Suburban 
Highway— The  Street  that  Was— Gipsy  Hill— The  Cult  of 
Escape— The  Love  of  London—Mr.  Roker's  Dear  Eyes— The 
Spell  of  London 


CHAPTER  H 

THE    FIRST    PERCH  .  .  .  .  .  .25 

London  in  the  Nursery — The  New-comer — A  Wessex  Squire 
— Sir  Joshua  Reynolds — To  London  in  a  Huff — A  Shy  Lawyer 
— The  Refusers— Robert  Buchanan  in  Stamford  Street — 
"  Come  out  of  her,  O  my  people  " — The  *'  First  Perch  " — 
Hoxton — A  Window  in  Islington — Charles'Lamb— "Alexander 
the  Corrector  " — Abraham  Newland — The  Bailiff's  Daughter 
— The  Missing  Cow — Plackett's  Common — "  Pop  Goes  the 
Weasel  "— Bunhill  Fields  —  Dining  on  Young's  "Night 
Thoughts  "—The  Temple  of  the  Muses— Shepherdess  Walk 
— Dodd  the  Dustman — Goswell  Street — Claremont  Square — 
Old  Pentonville — A  Noisy  Saint — Carlyle  and  the  Brickfields 
ix 


X  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

CHAPTER  III 

PA6B 

LORDS    AND    LANDLADIES  .  .  .  .  .54 

Feudal  Waistcoats — The  Duke  and  his  View— Decimus 
Burton  and  Major  Cartwright— The  Making  of  Bloomsbury— 
Lady  Ellenborough's  Flowers — Zachary  Macaulay — Capper's 
Farm — Water-cress — A  Gloomy  Square — A  War  on  Tips — 
The  Pretender  in  London — Dying  for  a  Greek  Accent — ^A 
Question  of  Taste — Red  Lion  Mary — Lord  Eldon's  Peaches — 
The  Field  of  the  Forty  Footsteps— Peter  Pindar's  Cottage— A 
Recipe  for  Old  Age — The  Railway  Termini— Agar  Town- 
Morrison's  Pills — King's  Cross  and  the  Moscow  Legend — Art 
for  the  Million— The  Cottage  that  Never  Was— St.  Pancras-le- 
Gasometer 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    CITY    man's    CITY     .  .  .  .  .  .79 

The  Street  called  Broad — A  Forgotten  Burial-ground — Before 
Harley  Street— Sir  Astley  Cooper  in  Broad  Street— The  Im- 
portance of  being  Charles — The  Five  Great  Drugs — Dr. 
Gardner's  "Last  and  Best  Bedroom" — The  Resurrection 
Men — A  Home  of  Learning — The  Devil  or  Dr.  Bull — Mead 
and  Radcliffe — Queen  Anne  is  dead — "  Rejected  Addresses  " 
The  Rothschild—"  Happy  !  Me  happy  ?  "—A  Bitter  Farewell 
— Macaulay's  Playground — Death  in  Tokenhouse  Yard — A 
Great  Auctioneer— Jack  Ellis— The  Poet  of  Cornhill— The 
Hosier  of  Freeman's  Court — Samuel  Rogers  in  the  City — 
Dodson  and  Fogg — Thackeray  in  Cornhill — William  Wynne 
Ryland— The  Immortal  Tailor— The  Cornhill  Pump—"  Patty- 
pan "  Birch — The  East; India  House — How  to  apply  for  an 
Appointment— A  Head  from  the  Tower— "Those  that  encamp 
toward  the  East "— Spitalfields— The  Uttermost  Parts 


CHAPTER   V 

THE  HOUSE-MOVING  OF  THE  GODS  .  .  .  .   I16 

The  Euston  Statuary  Yards— Plastic  Piccadilly— "  Our  Old 
Friend,the  Pelican  " — Joseph  Wilton — A  Window  in  Charlotte 
Street— Edward  FitzGerald— John  Constable— Cockney  Ladle 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

— Willan's  Farm— The  Coming  of  the  Omnibus—The  "  Green 
Man  " — The  Spread  of  London — The  Parent  of  the  Motor-car 
— The  Inspector  of  Fishes — The  Birth  of  Camden  Town — 
Boy  Boz— Warren  Street— Cookery  and  Culture— "The 
Village  Politicians  "— "  The  March  to  Finchley  "—A  Nursery 
of  Pugilists — The  Tottenham  Court  Road— Bozier's  Court 
— Hanway  Street — A  Great  Corner—"  I  too  am  sometimes 
unhappy  '* 


CHAPTER  VI 

LANE  AND  LABYRINTH       ......   I38 

St.  Giles's  Village — The  Resurrection  Gate — The  Ballad  Shop 
— Soho — The  Author  of  *'  Lacon  " — The  Clare  Market  Laby- 
rinth— The  Great  Storm — "  Ypol  " — A  Sinister  Archway — A 
Night  of  Terrors — A  Murder  and  its  Literature — The  Owl — 
In  Search  of  a  Mantelpiece — A  Dynasty  of  Door-knockers — 
Chancery  Lane  and  Shakespeare — Where  Hazlitt  talked — The 
Rolls  Chapel — Ready  to  "  Decompound  Evidence  " — The 
Inertia  of  London — A  Great  Corner 

CHAPTER  VII 

THE  STREET  OP  THE  SAGGING  PURPOSE  .  .  .    I59 

The  Mid-London  Crowd—"  Where's  the  Maypole  ?  "—The 
Man  in  the  Street — "Swimming  the  Hellespont" — Street 
Portraiture— The  Shops  that  Were— Doyley's— The  Polite 
Grocers  and  the  Mad  Hatters  —  A  Phrenologist  —  "The 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire" — Sotheby's — 
Homeric  Book  Sales — "Milk-white  Gosset " — The  Vellum 
Cure  —  Roger  Payne — A  Falstaffian  Memorandum  —  Art 
among  the  Ruins — Dr.  Monroe's  Guests — Turner's  Farewell 
— Rowlandson  and  his  Cronies — C.K. — Norfolk  Street — Dr. 
Brocklesby— Garrick's  Monument— Dan  Leno 

CHAPTER  VIII 
A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S  LONDON  .  .  .    186 

The  Abbey  and  an  Adventure — Chateaubriand — ^The  Despoi- 
lers— Antiquities  as  Playthings— Charles  Lamb — "Royalest 


xii  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

PAOK 

Seed  "—King  Henry  orders  his  Tomb— "They  do  bury  fools 
there  "— "  Hie  prope  Chaucerum  "—-"Two  feet  by  two  "—Sir 
Isaac  Newton — Garrick's  Funeral — Byron's  Home-coming — 
Chapel  of  the  Pyx— The  National  Quarter— The  Fire  of  1834 
—The  Horse  Guards'  Parade— Signalling  to  the  Fleet— The 
York  Column—"  A  Shocking  Bad  Hat  "—Cleopatra's  Needle 
for  Waterloo  Bridge — A  Congress  of  Wounds — The  Evicted 
Rooks — The  King's  Palace — Her  Grace  of  Buckinghamshire 
—The  Marble  Arch  — Hyde  Park  Corner— The  Duke  and 
the  Statue 

CHAPTER  IX 

THE  STREET  OF  THE  READY  WRITERS  .  .  .  .  2l8 

The  Lions  of  Fleet  Street— Button's— The  Shops  of  Yesterday 
—The  Hamiltonian  System— The  First  Pillar-box— The  Tomb 
of  Richardson — "The  Fruits  of  Experience" — The  Age  of 
the  Free  and  Easy — The  Bankrupt  Silversmith — A  Candle- 
snuffing  Expert — A  Great  Day  in  Fleet  Street — The  Heme 
Hill  Philosopher — Peele's  Coffee-house  and  a  Tragedy — "  Sat 
cito,  si  sat  bene  " — Hardham's  Snuff — The  Doctor  in  Gough 
Square — A  Guinea  a  Thousand  Words — "Where's  the  Book  ? " 
— "  Rasselas" — The  "  Cheshire  Cheese  "  Tradition — Wine  and 
Wit— "The  Anak  of  Publishers "—"  Childe  Harold  "—An 
Angry  Poet— Byron's  London— The  Literary  Life 

CHAPTER  X 

"STEPPING  westward"  .....  246 

The  Great  Chare— Optical  Illusions— The  Napoleon  Legend 
— The  Second-hand  Book  Market — Every  Book  has  its  Buyer 
—The  Superfluous  Book— Georgius  Tertius— The  Nocturnal 
Remembrancer — The^Haymarket — Wordsworth  at  the  Opera 
— G.  A.  S.— Pierce  Egan— Colonel  Panton— The  "  Eidophu- 
sikon" — Snuff  in  excelcis — "  Old  Nosey  " — Jermyn  Street  and 
a  Husband  in  Hiding — Carlyle  in  Regent  Street — "Sartor 
Resartus  "  in  Search  of  a  Publisher — A  "  Dog's-meat  Tart 
of  a  Magazine" — Talks  at  Eraser's — Edward  FitzGerald — 
Change  for  a  Sovereign— The  High  Street  of  Mayfair— The 
Castle  of  Indolence — Sterne's  Death-bed — Gentleman  Jackson 
—Park  Lane— The  Tragedy  of  Camelford  House — Lydia 
White — "  Conversation"  Sharp — "  Dizzy  always  likes  Lights  " 
— " Mr.  Sydney  Smith  is  coming  Upstairs" 


CONTENTS 


xui 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  STREET  OF  SONGS  AND  SIXPENCES 


PAGE 

.  278 


"The  Biggest  Street  in  the  City  "—Heine  in  Distress— Byron 
on  London — The  Paris  Equation — Shakespeare's  View  from 
Bankside — London  compared — Pageants  and  Poets-  The 
Hungry  Generations — Mr.  Scrivener  Milton  of  Bread  Street's 
Boy — Milton  Unawares — In  Artillery  Walk — "  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress " — A  Dinner  at  Dilly's — An  "  Extraneous  Person  " — Poor 
Susan — An  Invisible  Street — Richard  Jefferies  at  the  Bank — 
The  Street  of  the  China  Orange— The  Grasshopper — Trans- 
lating a  Statue— An  Eccentric  Banker— Pope's  "  Learned 
Friend  of  Abchurch  Lane  " — The  Chop-houses — Todgers's — 
Dickens  and  the  Spirit  of  Place — Cabbage-leaves  and  Comedy 
— The  Bridge  of  Memories — "London  Bridge  is  Broken 
Down  " — A  Tyneside  Carol — Proverbs  of  London  Bridge — 
The  London  Expression— A  Wooden  Gallery— The  Water 
Gate  of  London 


INDEX 


315 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Rising  Sun  Tavern  and  Booksellers*  Row        .  Frontispiece 


The  Old  Bell  Inn,  Holborn  .... 

Booksellers'  Row    ... 

The  Vanished  Strand   ..... 

High  Street,  Islington      .... 

Pentonville  Hill  ..... 

Bloomsbury  Backs   ..... 

In  Red  Lion  Square  [the  Morris-Rossetti  site) 
In  Broad  Street,  E.G.        .... 

Beyond  Aldgate  Pump  .  .  .  .  . 

EusTON  Road  Statuary       .... 

Charlotte  Street,  with  John  Constable's  House 

A  Glimpse  of  Soho  {Foubert's  Place) 

St.  Mary- le- Strand  Church    .  .  .  . 

Clare  Market  Ten  Years  Ago    . 

The  Old  Sardinia  Chapel  Archway 

George  Yard  ..... 

Strand  Demolitions,  1902         .... 

King  Street,  Westminster 

The  Old  White  Horse  Inn,  Fetter  Lane  . 

Park  Lane      ...... 

St.  Giles',  Cripplegate  .  .  .  . 

Pudding  Lane  and  the  Monument 

The  Water  Gate  of  London  .... 


FACINQ  PAGE 

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286 

304 
308 


A    LONDONER'S   LONDON 

CHAPTER   I 
THE  VEILS  OF  YESTERDAY 

The  Passing  of  Temple  Bar-— London  in  1886— The  Bearskins— Old 
Holborn — John  Grey's  Cider  Cellar — Feudal  Bloomsbury — Halfpenny 
Hatches— The  Wind  on  the  Heath— The  "Bull  and  Bush  "—Booksellers' 
Row— The  Knife-board— The  Lost  Wobble— The  Dignity  of  Carts- 
Leviathan  in  London — ^The  Evolution  of  the  Hansom — The  Exit  of 
Cockneyism — Rural  Retreats — "  I  don't  like  London  " — A  Fogey's 
Regrets — The  Advance  of  Bricks — How  London  Grows — A  Suburban 
Highway— The  Street  that  Was— Gipsy  Hill— The  Cult  of  Escape— 
The  Love  of  London — Mr.  Roker's  Dear  Eyes — The  Spell  of  London 

"  T  TOW  many  times  have  you  walked  under 
I     I  Temple    Bar  ? "    I     asked    my    old    friend 

"*"  "**Hewson. 

We  were  strolling  up  Fleet  Street,  after  an  evening 
at  the  Palaver  Club.  The  discussion,  on  an  economic 
subject,  had  dragged  a  little,  and  we  expanded  to  the 
air  and  lights.  My  question  was  abrupt,  but  Hewson 
was  always  ready  to  recall  a  London  older  than  mine, 
in  these  homeward  talks,  nevermore  possible. 

"  Thousands  of  times  1 "  He  paused,  and  added  in 
his  excogitative  way,  "  Do  you  realize  that  a  couple  of 
hours  ago  you  could  not  have  asked  me  that  question  ?  " 

^^ Why  not?" 

D 


2  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

"Because  one  cannot  talk  at  large  in  Fleet  Street  before 
eight  in  the  evening.  Imagine  yourself  asking  me  in 
the  luncheon  crowd/ How  many  times  have  you  walked 
under  Temple  Bar  ? '  I  should  have  snapped  or 
swerved,  or  nodded  to  another  fellow.  Dr.  Johnson 
himself  could  not  now  talk  in  Fleet  Street  until  night 
is  come,  and  the  people's  elbow  gone.  That  is  how 
London  alters.  Would  any  man  say  to  another  in  the 
luncheon-hour,  '  Fleet  Street,  in  my  mind,  is  more 
delightful  than  Tempe,'  or  anything  in  the  least 
like  it  ?  " 

"  That  remark  was  made  on  a  Sunday,"  I  reminded 
my  friend. 

"  Precisely ;  after  church,  when  Fleet  Street  was  as 
quiet  as  it  is  now.  Tempe  and  Mull  1  I  can  see  the 
old  engravings  of  Temple  Bar,  with  a  lonesome  girl 
carrying  a  basket  on  her  head,  and  one  high-wheeled 
hackney-coach  standing  like  a  rock  half-way  down 
there  to  Ludgate." 

"  Oh,  the  engravers  made  every  street  a  wilderness. 
The  Doctor  had  to  forge  his  way  through  crowds. 
You  remember  that  he  and  Boswell  once  had  to  step 
into  Falcon  Court  only  to  say  '  How  d'ye  do.'  There 
is  the  place,  opposite,  next  the  map  shop.  But  tell 
me,  you  knew  the  old  Bar  well  ? " 

"  Like  a  brother.    And  I  saw  it  destroyed." 

"  Well,  and  did  you  weep  when  it  went  ?  You 
know  Lamb  wept  when  they  took  down  St  Dunstan's 
clock." 

"No.  There  was  the  spectacle.  That  was  fine. 
The  men  worked  night  and  day,  and  one  night — it 
must  have  been  in  the  winter  of  eighteen-seventy- 
seven — or  eight — I  was  walking  home  at  about  twelve 
when  1  came  on  the  scene.  There  was  some  fog,  and 
upon  my  word  the  old  gateway  looked  like  a  sacrificial 


THE  VEILS  OF  YESTERDAY  3 

altar,  all  aflame  with  huge  gas-jets  in  a  maze  of  timbers 
and  scaffolding.  Men  crept  about  it  like  bees.  I 
remember  the  bleached  statues  of  Charles  I  and 
Charles  II  and  the  rest  of  them  peeping  out,  like 
your  Lamb's  party  in  a  parlour,  all  silent  and  all 
damned.  I  stood  there  half  an  hour,  fascinated  by 
this  Titan  assault  on  Time  in  the  dead  of  night." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  And  did  Londoners  come  to  see 
the  last  of  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  as  they  went  to  see  the  last  of  Jumbo. 
But  they  had  a  big  feeling  for  Temple  Bar.  I  re- 
member that  on  the  night  of  the  illuminations  for  the 
marriage  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  the  crowds  poured 
through  it  for  hours  and  hours,  and  never  ceased  to 
ply  the  old  iron  knocker  on  the  doors  ;  there  was 
thunder  in  the  arch  all  night." 

I  do  not  remember  whether  I  told  Hewson  that  I 
had  been  in  time  to  walk  under  Temple  Bar.  That 
was  in  the  Seventies,  in  a  boyish  scamper  through 
London,  and  the  memory  gives  me  a  singular  assur- 
ance that  I  have  seen  an  older  town.  Indeed,  Temple 
Bar  seems  now  to  be  more  than  a  vanished  object  of 
Fleet  Street ;  I  see  it  rising  in  time  rather  than  in 
space,  a  shadowy  postern  where  the  old  London 
centuries  chafed  to  be  released  into  the  light  of 
modern  day.  When  I  returned  to  London,  to  be  of 
it  as  well  as  in  it,  Temple  Bar  had  vanished  and  its 
numbered  stones  were  lying  in  Farringdon  Street. 

That  was  in  1886.  Life  is  long.  Thousands  of 
children  who  were  then  in  the  Park  perambulators 
are  now  married  and  formidable.  The  young  crowd 
of  London  is  a  new  crowd,  and  the  town  has  come  up 
like  the  tide.  How  different  was  the  whole  savour 
of    the    London    into    which    I   stole    only    twenty- 


4  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

six  years  ago.  Queen  Victoria  had  hardly  reached  old 
age,  and  the  Victorian  era  had  not  seen  itself  in  the 
Jubilee  mirror.  Any  day,  in  some  quiet  street,  one 
might  be  face  to  face  with  William  Ewart  Gladstone 
whom  to  meet  was  like — 

Vassalage  at  unawares,  encountering  the  eye 
Of  majesty. 

I  cannot  walk  down  Whitehall  without  missing  the 
sentries  who,  in  1886,  had  not  been  removed  from 
the  doors  of  the  Government  offices.  On  Sundays 
the  Foot  Guards  walked  out  in  their  bearskins,  and 
you  saw  a  hirsute  giant  going  to  the  Park  with  a 
diminutive  Jill  from  a  Pont  Street  kitchen.  In  the 
dusk  of  the  evening  the  broad  path  from  the  Ser- 
pentine to  the  Marble  Arch  was  one  sinuous  blackness, 
and  I  see  still  the  skyline  of  the  tumultuous  proces- 
sion plumed  by  those  bulbous  head-pieces  that  swayed 
against  the  pale-green  sky.  In  the  late  Eighties  there 
was  a  vestige  of  courage  in  taking  the  Victoria  Em- 
bankment by  night,  or  walking  through  the  Seven 
Dials.  There  was  no  Charing  Cross  Road  to  air  St. 
Giles's,  and  no  railway  to  bisect  St.  John's  Wood.  The 
sign  of  the  Bull  and  Mouth  Tavern,  facing  St.  Martin's- 
le-Grand,  still  reminded  pale  Londoners  how 

Milo,  the  Cretonian, 

An  ox  slew  with  his  fist, 
Anl  ate  it  up  at  one  meal, 

Ye  gods,  what  a  glorious  twist ! 

In  Holborn  you  might  walk  through  the  square 
carriage-way  of  Furnival's  Inn,  under  which  Dickens 
passed  in  the  flush  of  his  youth  to  sign  his  contract 
for  the   Pickwick   Papers.      Next  to   Furnival's    Inn 


THE   VEILS   OF  YESTERDAY  5 

stood,  or  staggered,  an  inn  that  Dickens  must  have 
loved.  Passing  it,  you  saw  pewter  candlesticks ;  on 
entering,  you  were  served  with  port  negus  by  a  waiter 
in  lineaments  and  dignity  the  double  of  Mr.  Speaker 
Peel.  It  was  to  this  old  inn,  Ridler's,  or  the  ^^  Bell 
and  Crown,"  that  Tom  Hood's  ruralizing  Cockney  had 
sent  back  his  longing  thoughts  from  Porkington  Place. 
Hood  had  some  warrant  for  his  portrait  of  a  Londoner, 
wistful  of  Holborn  among  dairy  delights.  For 
under  Furnival's  Inn — not  the  building  one  knew, 
but  its  immediate  predecessor — there  had  been  a  cider 
vault  kept  by  one  John  Grey.  This  man,  after  years 
of  attendance  on  his  customers,  had  made  a  decent 
fortune,  and  was  able  to  buy  an  estate  in  Yorkshire, 
to  which  he  retired.  But  the  clatter  of  hoofs  in 
Holborn  was  ever  in  his  ears  ;  and  finally,  he  re- 
turned to  London  and  endeavoured  to  buy  back  his 
old  cellar.  Failing  in  this,  he  offered  to  be  a  waiter 
where  he  had  formerly  been  master  ;  he  was  accepted, 
and  drew  a  salary  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

No  single  street  has  shed  more  antiquity  than  Hol- 
born :  its  cheery  "  Bell  "  and  "  Black  Bull "  are  dust. 
Then  came  a  gap  from  which  clouds  of  engine  smoke 
rolled  across  the  traffic.  A  shaft  of  the  "  Tube  "  rail- 
way was  being  sunk  in  Fulwood's  Rents,  on  the  site  of 
Squire's  Coffee  House  where  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley 
had  smoked  his  pipe.  The  name  of  Fulwood's  Rents 
is  not  lost,  though  critics  no  longer  meet  there  to 
**  make  an  end  of  the  Nature  of  the  Sublime." 

Among  the  symbols  of  this  paradoxically  remote 
London,  few  are  more  vivid,  or  more  incredible,  than 
the  Bloomsbury  bars,  kept  by  ducal  watchmen  in 
gold-laced  hats,  who  admitted  or  repelled  hansom 
cabs  as  they  pleased.  They  were  a  relic  of  the  feudal 
barriers  which  had  vexed  Londoners  for  generations. 


6  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

Particularly  they  recalled  the  hatches  which  were 
common  in  the  eighteenth  century.  These  were 
usually  footpaths  over  private  ground,  or  new  neigh- 
bourhoods, whose  owners  took  a  halfpenny  from  the 
strolling  Cockney.  The  last  of  them  gave  access  from 
the  Old  Kent  Road  towards  London  Bridge.  In 
Lambeth,  behind  St.  John  the  Evangelist's  Church 
in  the  Waterloo  Road,  there  is  still  a  place  called 
Hatch  Row  in  the  midst  of  squalid  old  cottage 
property.  I  have  found  that  the  people  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood constantly  speak  of  Palmer  Street  as  "  up 
the  Hatch,"  not  knowing,  most  of  them,  that  the 
name  perpetuates  the  memory  of  Curtis's  Hatch, 
which  led  across  the  nursery-grounds  of  Curtis,  the 
nurseryman  and  botanist — an  interesting  man,  whose 
own  name  ought  to  have  been  preserved  in  the  street 
nomenclature  of  this  district.  No  halfpennies  were 
levied  in  Bloomsbury,  but  at  the  pointing  of  the 
ducal  finger  your  hansom  cab  turned  in  an  eddy  of 
objurgation. 

In  1886  Hampstead  Heath  was  the  beginning  of  the 
country,  it  has  now  no  claim  to  be  the  end  of  the  town. 
Itself  a  "garden  city,"  it  is  being  encircled  by  jerry- 
built  suburbs  and  planetary  tram-cars.  I  knew  Parlia- 
ment Hill  as  a  place  of  hedges  and  haymaking  and 
trespass-boards.  Now  it  is  a  park — an  open  one — but 
still  a  park,  and  the  boys  who  play  cricket  on  it  were 
not  born  when  I  walked  over  its  solitudes  on  moon- 
light nights,  gazing  at  the  far-off  silvered  dome  of  St. 
Paul's.  Hampstead  was  still  a  place  of  pilgrimage  and 
remoteness,  the  place  where  Constable's  eye  loved 
to  watch  a  rain-cloud  pass  over  fir  and  gorse.  I 
remember  a  little  row  of  cottages  that  stood  opposite 
the  "  Bull  and  Bush."  Their  gardens  sloped  gently 
to  the  road ;    almost    I    recover  the  scent   of    their 


2  U 

<   X 

I  < 


THE   VEILS   OF   YESTERDAY  7 

mignonette  and  sweet-william.  But  those  cottages 
are  razed,  their  gardens  are  a  weedy  mound  ;  gone  are 
the  tea-tables  on  which  cut  flowers  were  placed  in  jars, 
though  they  grew  on  every  hand.  It  was  a  coign  of 
vantage,  whence  could  be  seen  the  small  stir  of  the 
inn.  Up  and  down  the  lane  the  voices — not  too  many 
— came  and  retreated,  a  bicycle  bell  tinkled,  a  party 
of  girls  on  horseback  trotted  out  of  the  shadows, 
everywhere  the  sunshine  danced,  and  then  the  strains 
of  a  vagrant  harp  would  seek  the  sky.  To  sit  there 
and  be  meditative ;  to  finger  a  pocket  Horace, 
and  murmur,  with  the  precocious  melancholy  of 
youth, 

Achilles  perished  in  his  prime, 
Tithon  was  worn  away  by  time, 

or  some  other  pensive  exclamation  of  the  Sabine,  was 
to  envisage  London  through  distance  and  poetry. 

One  was  conscious  of  a  certain  homogeneous  mild- 
ness in  the  associations  of  Hampstead,  an  orthodoxy 
that  recalled  the  family  bookcase  in  some  far  and 
fragrant  corner  of  England.  Church  Row  wore  its  in- 
violate garment  of  old  red  brick  and  straight  shallow 
windows,  as  when  Mrs.  Barbauld  produced  there  the 
books  which  our  grandparents  found  so  "  suitable " 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  that  "Address  to  Life" 
which  smoothed  their  paths  to  the  grave.  And  there 
lived  her  niece,  Lucy  Aikin,  whose  memoirs  of 
Addison  were  caressed  by  Macaulay  ;  and  John  Day 
of  "  Sandford  and  Merton,"  that  prop  of  the  middle- 
class  nursery.  Hard  by  Joanna  Baillie  lived  and  wrote 
in  silken  state,  and  received  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and 
heard  Crabbe  try  over  his  latest  lines.  In  that  skyey 
retreat,  where   Mr.  H.  G.  Wells  now  hoists  the  social 


8  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

weather  cone,  Dr.  Beddoes  prescribed  for  literary 
ladies  the  inhaling  of  the  breath  of  cows,  and  induced 
Ann  Veronica's  great-grandmother  to  sleep  with  a  cow 
standing  all  night  with  its  head  between  her  bed- 
curtains. 

At  Hampstead,  now  and  then,  Wordsworth  had 
strolled  the  heath  in  large  discourse  with  Haydon. 
Even  then  the  village  was  old,  and  its  venerables 
venerated  the  cottage  in  which  Johnson  had  written 
his  "  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes";  or  reminded  each 
other  that  Steele  and  Gay  and  Arbuthnot  had  climbed 
to  the  hill-village  as  to  a  green  promontory  overlook- 
ing London's  yeasty  waves.  While  they  recalled  these 
Augustan  shades,  Keats  was  poising  his  frail  figure 
to  hear  the  nightingale.  Ruskin  was  to  come,  and 
Dickens,  and  Du  Maurier,  and  Wilkie  Collins,  who 
called  Hampstead  *'  an  amiable,  elevated  lubberland, 
affording  to  London  the  example  of  a  kind  of  suburban 
Nirvana."  It  is  still  amiable  and  elevated,  but  for 
Nirvana  we  must  look  farther  than  to  a  suburb  whose 
inhabitants  are  pelleted  from  the  theatres  in  a  tube. 
From  the  high  Heath  you  still  see  England  on  one 
side  and  her  capital  on  the  other,  but  the  gipsy  girl  no 
longer  rises  like  a  flame  from  the  gorse  ;  the  artist 
comes  less  often  to  set  his  easel  in  the  sand,  and  the 
philosopher  to  pursue  the  theory  of  tittle-bats. 

While  we  grow  older  the  London  we  knew  dis- 
appears, and  at  double  speed  we  are  separated  from 
streets  where  we  remember  to  have  stood  in  leisure. 
It  was  on  a  drizzling  autumn  evening  in  1901  that 
Booksellers'  Row  was  closed  for  ever.  No  Londoner 
who  had  haunted  the  street  could  consent  to  its  going. 
The  lane  was  mediaeval  in  its  shapes  and  contour,  and 
nothing  like  it  is  left.  It  led  from  one  island  church 
to  another  ;  a  white  church-tower  topped  the  buildings 


k 


THE  VEILS   OF   YESTERDAY  9 

either  way.  The  little  cavernous  shops,  glowing  with 
books,  did  not  presume  to  draw  you  from  your  direct 
eastward  or  westward  path  ;  they  offered  you  a  warm 
side-passage  where  you  could  absorb  a  few  titles, 
accept  a  provocation  to  thought,  and  regain  the  larger 
air  of  the  Strand — or  you  could  finger  and  buy.  How 
good  was  the  butt-end  that  faced  you  from  the  Law 
Courts  ;  the  old  Rising  Sun  Tavern,  cheek  by  jowl 
with  a  bookseller's  four-storied  house,  with  its  wooden 
gallery  atop,  and  its  overhanging  side  in  Holywell 
Street,  where  you  foresaw  those  good  delays. 

The  street  imposed  a  gait.  If  you  hurried  you 
might  knock  over  one  of  the  gilt-framed  old  portraits 
or  landscapes  propped  outside  Wheeler's  picture 
shop,  i  Dead  to  books  was  the  man  who  could  pass 
Ridler's  without  reviewing  his  regiment  of  folio  his- 
tories and  topographies,  his  sheepskin  classics,  and 
the  shelf  of  cropped  Elzevirs  in  the  doorway.  Mr. 
Hindley,  himself  a  maker  of  books,  was  to  be  seen 
next  door,  his  "  Cries  of  London "  and  "  Life  and 
Times  of  James  Catnach  "  in  the  foreground.  So  you 
came  in  the  course  of  time  to  the  modern  banquet  of 
Denny  at  the  south-west  corner  by  St.  Mary's.  What 
shilling  shockers,  what  sixpenny  budgets  of  humour, 
threepenny  paper  classics,  astrologies,  graphologies  I 
Good  old,  hospitable,  not  quite  reputable  street,  whose 
Crescent  Moon  is  now  museum  lumber,  whose  beckon- 
ing glow  is  lost  in  municipal  day-shine,  I  doubt  if  we 
had  a  right  to  pull  you  down.  You  should  be  there 
still — in  the  arms  of  Aldwych. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  one  mounted  a  knife-board 
bus  every  morning.  At  many  a  "Head"  or  "Arms," 
well  within  the  four-mile  radius,  conductors  cried, 
"  London,  London  " — a  little  to  my  displeasure.  It 
sounded  vast  and  atmospheric,  but  was  I  not,   then, 


10  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

in  London  ?  Then  came  the  garden-seat,  and  facetious 
leading  articles  on  its  social  bearings.  Then,  tickets. 
I  think  it  was  on  Sunday,  14  May,  1901,  that  London 
began  to  be  strewn  with  omnibus  paper,  and  my 
recollection  is  that  a  little  snow  fell  in  sympathy. 
How  the  motor-omnibus  came,  let  historians  tell  in 
due  season. 

The  horse-omnibus  was  pronounced  by  a  great 
authority  to  be  ^'  probably  the  lightest  and  strongest 
vehicle  in  the  world  for  carrying  twenty-eight 
people  at  a  speed  of  nearly  eight  miles  an  hour." 
To-day  there  are  hardly  twenty-eight  people  left  in 
London  who  are  content  to  travel  so  slowly,  and  for 
most  Londoners  the  fine  digestive  wobble  of  the  horse- 
omnibus  is  already  a  lost  sensation.  It  is  the  wobble 
we  miss — that  hint  of  majestic  delirium  which  per- 
mitted a  fair  woman  to  smile  to  you  ever  so  suppliantly 
as  the  bus  swung  round  Waterloo  Place.  The  motor- 
omnibus  does  not  wobble,  it  leans  ;  but  leaning  is  too 
long  a  trial,  and  though  under  it  the  eye  of  woman 
dilates,  it  does  not  respond  as  in  the  wobble's  divine 
recoveries. 

Posterity  will  discover  that  in  the  year  191 2  the 
newspapers  were  full  of  the  perils  which  the  motor- 
omnibus  has  brought  into  streets  too  narrow  for  its 
unwieldy  gyrations.  This  is  one  of  those  disorders 
which  seem  to  be  always  overtaking  London.  In 
1634  Sir  William  Davenant  wrote :  **  Sure  your 
ancestors  contrived  your  narrow  streets  m  the  days  of 
wheel-barrows,  before  those  greater  engines,  carts,  were 
invented."  Carts  had  then  choked  the  streets,  and 
Davenant  found  that  a  coach-ride  was  a  dubious 
proposition  "  till  the  quarrel  be  decided  whether  six 
of  your  nobles,  sitting  together,  shall  stop  and  give 
way  to  as  many  barrels  of  beer.     Your  city  is  the  only 


THE   VEILS   OF   YESTERDAY  ii 

metropolis  in  Europe  where  there  is  wonderful  dignity 
given  to  carts." 

To-day  the  '^  wonderful  dignity  "  is  grudgingly  given 
to  the  motor-omnibus,  a  vehicle  almost  twice  the  size 
of  the  one  it  has  superseded  within  ten  years.  The 
horse-omnibus  was  proportioned  to  the  stress  of  the 
street,  and  it  had  a  genial  dignity  which  is  absent  from 
its  successor.  Thus  periodically  we  are  brought  back 
to  conditions  which  are  antique  and  barbarous. 
Goldsmith's  Chinaman  might  write  to-day,  as  he  did 
more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  :  ^^  Heavy- 
laden  machines,  with  wheels  of  unwieldy  thickness, 
crowd  up  every  passage  ;  so  that  a  stranger,  instead  of 
finding  time  for  observation,  is  often  happy  if  he  has 
time  to  escape  from  being  crushed  to  pieces." 

Observation  is  denied  to  the  man  on  the  motor-bus, 
as  to  the  wretch  under  it.  The  horse-omnibus  was  full 
of  interest  and  amenity.  You  exchanged  town  wisdom 
with  the  driver,  watching  the  dark  dance  of  the  manes 
below.  The  give-and-take  of  the  street  was  possible. 
The  motor-vehicle's  furore  of  arriving  kills  obser- 
vation. Nor  would  Mr.  Howells  write  now  of  its 
passengers  :  ^^  They  are  no  longer  ordinary  or  less 
than  ordinary  men  and  women  bent  on  the  shabby 
businesses  that  preoccupy  the  most  of  us ;  they  are 
conquering  princes,  making  a  progress  in  a  long 
triumph  and  looking  down  upon  a  lower  order  of 
human  beings  from  their  wobbling  steps."  For  the 
height  and  high  rail  of  the  new  vehicle  make  the 
riders  look  small ;  they  are  alienated  from  the  meek 
crowd  below,  who  wince  and  pass.  *^  Canst  thou 
draw  out  leviathan  with  a  hook  ?  " — or  a  look  ?  Nor 
less  prophetically  is  it  written,  *'One  is  so  near  to 
another  that  no  air  can  come  between  them.  Out 
of   his  mouth  go   burning  lamps,  and  sparks  of    fire 


la  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

leap  out.     He  esteemeth  iron   as  straw,  and  brass  as 
rotten  wood." 

Nearly  ended,  too,  is  the  seventy  years'  reign  of 
the  vernacular  vehicle  which  bears  the  surname  of  its 
inventor,  Joseph  Aloysius  Hansom.  No  one  would 
have  thought,  in  1833,  of  calling  his  creation  the 
gondola  of  London.  It  rather  resembled  a  tumbril 
for  taking  calves  to  market,  so  nearly  its  body  touched 
the  ground  and  so  high  its  wheels.  Even  so  it  was 
not  the  most  fantastic  vehicle  offered  to  London.  In 
various  models  the  door  was  placed  in  front,  at  the 
side,  and  at  the  back.  Hansom  himself  experimented 
with  a  vehicle  which  the  passenger  was  to  enter  through 
the  wheelSf  but  this  alarming  dream  was  not  fulfilled. 
That  big-bodied,  big-brained  artist,  John  Varley,  who 
painted,  astrologized,  and  believed  in  the  ghost  of  a 
flea,  was  attracted  by  the  problem,  and  after  much 
study  he  evolved  a  cab  with  eight  wheels.  In  the  first 
trial  it  nearly  cut  short  the  career  of  his  capitalist,  who 
was  a  nervous  man.  "  Never  no  more,  Mr.  Varley  ; 
never  no  more  !  Ten  minutes  in  the  thing  has  all  but 
shaken  the  life  out  of  me ;  ten  more  would  quite  finish 
me.  Never  no  more,  thank  you,  John."  Only  London's 
wit  and  social  attrition  shaped  Hansom's  vehicle  to 
the  lines  that  Whistler  loved,  and  made  it  the  artist's 
hieroglyphic  of  the  streets.  Novelists  found  in  the 
hansom  a  valuable  property  of  fiction,  placing  their 
lovers  behind  its  melodiously  clanging  apron,  or 
attaching  some  mystery  of  crime  to  its  stealthy 
binocular  glide  through  London's  night.  So,  in 
Stevenson's  story,  London  is  scoured  by  mysterious 
cabmen  in  search  of  those  **  single  gentlemen  in 
evening  dress,"  from  whom  Mr.  Morris  was  to 
select  the  few  and  fit  to  witness  Prince  Florizel's 
vengeance    on    the   President   of    the   Suicide   Club. 


I 


THE  VEILS  OF  YESTERDAY  13 

To-day  the  hansom  hovers  between  two  worlds  :  it 
is  still  in  the  streets,  yet  taking  antiquity  by  the 
forelock  it  has  entered  the  London  Museum. 

The  change  of  changes  in  the  last  twenty  years  has 
been  the  decline — say  rather  the  exit — of  Cockneyism. 
Let  us  look  back  to  1800.  The  town  which  for  cen- 
turies had  solidified  within  sound  of  Bow  Bells  then 
showed  signs  of  incandescence.  But  the  process  was 
ridiculed.  The  rhymester  and  the  caricaturist  found 
their  butt  in  the  snug  citizen  who  began  to  keep  a 
country  box  at  Islington  or  Camberwell,  to  which 
on  a  Sunday  he  brought  his  family  in  a  chaise, 
swelling  with  pride  at  the  rococo  beauties  of  a 
dusty  garden.  The  caricaturists — Bunbury,  Gillray, 
Deighton,  Woodward,  and  Rowlandson — all  poked 
fun  at  the  roving  citizen  and  his  ideas  of  landscape 
gardening ;  and  what  they  said  in  caricature  the 
poets  repeated  in  satire.  Even  Cowper  saw  little  but 
absurdity  in  the  demand  for  villas  and  summer- 
houses.  Much  of  this  satire  was  deserved,  for  the 
Cockney  could  be  happy  in  the  country  only  by  sur- 
rounding himself  with  suggestions  of  the  town.  His 
summer-houses  shared  the  Chinese  fashion  of  the 
London  drawing-room,  and  the  Piccadilly  statuaries 
drove  a  thriving  trade  in  supplying  him  with  gesticu- 
lating gods  and  squabby  Cupids. 

When  these  near  retreats  became  absorbed  in 
London,  the  Cockneys  went  farther  afield,  and  the 
satirists  followed  them  to  Margate  and  Brighton.  At 
Hastings,  Charles  Lamb  vented  crocodile  pity  on  the 
Londoners  picking  up  shells  for  a  few  days  and  sigh- 
ing to  be  back  in  town.  "  I  am  sure,"  he  says,  "that 
no  town-bred  or  inland-born  subjects  can  feel  their 
true  and  natural  nourishment  in  these  sea-places.  .  .  , 
I  would  exchange  these  sea-gulls  for  swans,  and  send 


14  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

a  swallow  for  ever  about  the  banks  of  Thanesis."  He 
asks  these  ^^  sea-charmed  emigrants  "  what  they  would 
think  if  a  band  of  Hastings  fishermen  with  their 
fishing-tackle  on  their  backs  came  to  see  London. 
"  What  vehement  laughter  would  it  not  excite  among 
the  daughters  of  Cheapside  and  wives  of  Lombard 
Street."  To-day  fifty  thousand  Lancashire  lads  will 
invade  London,  and  be  admired  and  welcomed,  while 
the  bungalows  of  little  Londoners  are  as  shells  on 
the  seashore. 

Thus  the  old  London  pride  and  the  old  rustic 
suspicion,  registered  by  countless  poets,  dramatists 
and  song-makers,  may  be  said  to  have  vanished  in  our 
own  time.  You  must  look  for  them  now  in  the 
books :  in  Chaucer,  in  the  Elizabethans,  in  the 
eighteenth-century  essayists,  in  the  Tom  and  Jerry 
writers,  and  in  a  thousand  Victorian  songs.  The 
song-writer  had  no  better  theme  than  rustic  wonder- 
ment presented  as  a  satire  on  London  follies.  But 
who  now  talks  of  bumpkins,  or  makes  play  with 
turnips  ?  Yet  twenty-five  years  ago  the  new-comer 
was  still  recognized  and  twitted  :  did  I  not  know  it  ? 
A  discomforting  wit  still  preyed  on  his  dress  or 
accent.  I  fancy  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  Spalding's 
oft-repeated  groan,  ^' I  don't  like  London"  (in  the 
"  Private  Secretary  "),  was  the  very  last  stage  tag  in 
this  species  of  humour.  The  material  for  farce 
can  no  longer  be  found  in  the  collision  of  -London 
cuteness  with  country  simplicity,  and  these  straws 
from  the  theatres  and  concert  halls  can  be  trusted. 
The  bewildered  curate's  exclamation  was  effective 
because  it  appealed  to  familiar  ideas.  When  Mr. 
Penley  was  reiterating  his  dislike  of  London  at  the 
Globe  Theatre,  these  half-playful  prejudices  were  still 
abroad — a  not  too  merciful  wit  rained  on  the  country- 


BOOKSELLERS     ROW 

THE    LANE    WAS    MEDI/I-ZVAL    IN    ITS    SHAPES    AND    CONTOUK,    AND    NOTHING    I.IKE    IT    IS 
LEFT    ...    A    WHITE    CHUKCH    TOWER    TOPPED    THE    BUILDINGS    EITHER    WAY       (p.    8) 


THE  VEILS  OF  YESTERDAY  15 

man  from  the  boxes  of  bus  and  cab,  or  environed 
him  at  street-corners.  But  the  ponderous  joke  was 
on  the  eve  of  explosion,  and  to-day  it  is  as  much  a 
memory  as  the  Cockney  "2^."  To-day,  so  far  from 
scorning  a  country  accent,  Londoners  are  beginning 
to  deplore  the  loss  of  their  own. 

Recalling  the  town  of  his  youth,  an  old  Londoner 
says  :  ^^  Then  it  was  a  comparatively  pleasant  place  to 
live  in,  and  even  the  climate  seemed  better  than  it  is 
to-day.  The  country  came  close  up  to  the  town, 
whereas  to-day  the  town  runs  a  long  way  out  into  the 
country — rather  a  different  thing ;  and  a  city-going 
man  did  not  have  to  spend  two  or  three  hours  in  get- 
ting to  and  from  his  work.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  great 
many  people  walked  to  and  fro  from  the  City.  .  .  . 
The  size  of  London  will  not  bear  thinking  about,  and 
its  probable  increase  during  the  next  twenty  or  even 
ten  years  ought  to  give  pause  to  all  thoughtful  people." 

So  immense  has  been  the  disturbance  in  the  hen- 
roost that  the  tendency  to  fly  outwards  to  villa  and 
cottage  has  been  accompanied  by  a  tendency  to 
make  the  centre  habitable  by  roosting  high.  The  big 
square  brick  houses  built  a  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago  for  spacious  town  life  are  pulled  down  when  the 
chance  offers,  to  be  replaced  by  blocks  of  flats  in 
which  family  is  piled  on  family,  and  the  windows 
give  on  brick  abysses  and  dust-shoots.  So  late  as 
1879,  Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  the  eldest  son  of  the 
novelist,  noted  in  his  "  Dictionary  of  London  "  that 
almost  the  only  flats  in  London  were  those  in  Queen 
Anne's  Mansions,  a  few  in  Cromwell  Road,  and  a 
single  set  in  George  Street,  Edgware  Road.  In  1881 
the  flat  system  was  sufficiently  new  to  inspire  a 
comedy,  '*  Flats,"  which  was  brought  out  at  the 
Criterion  Theatre. 


i6  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

In  all  these  changes  we  witness  the  uneasy  breath- 
ing of  the  London  whose  life  has  been  continuous  for 
a  thousand  years.  Endowed  with  the  impulse  but  not 
the  genius  of  growth,  she  has  attained  her  inchoate 
immensity  by  devouring  her  rural  outposts  one  by 
one.  City  men  made  an  exclusive  paradise  of  some 
small  village  three  miles  out  on  a  great  highway, 
intending  the  simple  life  when  the  day  ended.  The 
colony  grew,  the  London  road  became  thinly 
peopled,  and  then  the  houses  grew  denser  and  off- 
shoots appeared.  Thus  the  colony  was  woven  into 
the  fabric.  London  has  grown  less  by  formal  advance 
into  the  country  than  by  overtaking  herself.  In  any 
suburban  highway  you  may  read  the  story  in  bricks. 
Take  any  great  road,  say  the  Kingsland  Road ; 
there  is  no  straighter  march  out  of  London  than  this 
highway,  which  stretches  north  from  Shoreditch  to 
Dalston,  and  then,  changing  its  name,  flies  on 
through  Stoke  Newington,  Tottenham,  and  Edmon- 
ton to  green  Hertfordshire.  A  little  way  along  it, 
from  Shoreditch,  you  come  to  the  Ironmongers' 
Almshouses,  standing  back  from  the  road  and  spread- 
ing their  long  red  roofs  to  the  sun.  You  look 
through  the  railings ;  the  sunshine  glints  on  the  gold 
necklet  of  Sir  Robert  Jeffery,  the  founder,  standing  in 
his  niche ;  it  falls  softly  on  the  garden  grass ;  it 
gleams  on  the  windows,  where  forty  poor  ladies  are 
drinking  tea.  All  through  the  eighteenth  century 
these  almshouses,  which  now  flank  a  roaring  highway, 
stood  alone  in  the  fields.  To  right  and  left  were 
meadows  and  market-gardens.  Some  of  these 
gardens  flourished  until  sixty  years  ago,  when  they 
were  built  over ;  and  the  names  of  the  streets  tell 
where  the  myrtle  (Myrtle  Grove),  and  the  laurel 
(Laurel   Street),  and  the  lavender  (Lavender  Grove), 


THE  VEILS  OF  YESTERDAY  17 

and  the  bosky  thickets  (Woodland  Street)  were  fru- 
gally planted  when  the  nineteenth  century  was  young. 

The  old  ladies  who  smelt  the  roses  and  dibbled 
their  potatoes  in  the  Almshouse  garden  looked  up 
to  see  the  carriers'  carts  creaking  up  to  Stoke  New- 
ington  and  Enfield.  Stoke  Newington  was  the 
colony,  planted  on  the  hill-top  far  from  London. 
Newington  Green,  with  its  red-brick  houses,  its 
wrought-iron  lamps  and  gateways,  its  venerable  sward 
with  weather-worn  palings,  its  memories  of  Poe  and 
Rogers,  still  interprets  a  smaller  London  whose 
Kingsland  Road  was  dotted  with  carriages  and  the 
carts  of  wine-merchants  and  tea-men  when  it  yet 
ran  between  hedges,  and  was  crossed  by  rabbits. 

A  rural  and  connective  character  survives  in  the 
road  from  Shoreditch  up  to  Dalston.  It  widens 
with  rural  extravagance.  The  pavement  becomes  a 
market,  where  are  dumped,  or  were  recently,  articles 
that  recall  the  Sixties,  queer  kitchen  utensils,  seashells 
for  garden  and  rockeries,  a  shade  of  wax  fruit,  a 
globe  from  a  dame's  school,  a  fly-blown  portrait  of 
Palmerston. 

The  faded  subsidiary  name,  "Sarah's  Place,"  may 
be  read  on  a  house  half-way  to  Dalston.  The  name 
is  no  longer  used,  the  houses  being  absorbed  in  the 
artery.  But  it  recalls  the  first  ownership.  Sarah  was 
the  wife  or  daughter  of  the  man  who  built  the  row. 
In  "  Susannah's  Cottages,  1835,"  "  Hiram's  Cottages, 
1827,"  "  Mansfield's  Cottages,"  and  "  Richard's  Cot- 
*^g^/'  you  read  the  same  story  of  an  extending 
London,  and  the  exultation  of  her  sons  advancing 
up  the  Kingsland  Road  to  sit  under  their  own  fig-trees. 
You  walk  on  up  the  great  free  road,  and  in  ten 
minutes  you  are  in  the  bustle  of  Dalston,  and  have 
passed — from  London  to  London. 


i8  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

I  wish  that  a  pictorial  record  could  be  kept  of  the 
elevations  in  the  principal  streets  of  London,  to  be 
renewed  perhaps  once  in  a  generation.  Few  things 
are  more  irrecoverable  than  the  look  of  a  street  that 
has  been  displaced  or  rebuilt.  Artists  may  compile 
their  details  ;  the  promoters  of  bazaars  may  nail  up 
lath  and  cloth  plausibly,  and  label  it  with  **  Ye's  "  and 
"  Olde's"  without  stint ;  but  the  Street  that  was  eludes 
us  still  :  St.  James's  Street  as  Lord  Byron  walked  it ; 
the  Strand  as  it  looked  when  the  Polite  Grocers  were 
weighing  out  their  bohea  ;  the  Haymarket  when  it 
was  hay-market ;  Holborn  as  it  appeared  in  fearful 
detail  from  the  Tyburn  cart. 

To  this  oblivion  of  streets  there  is  an  exception. 
There  does  exist  a  minute  representation  of  a  long 
London  roadway  as  it  was  a  hundred  or  more  years 
ago.  In  it  the  very  cobbles  and  gratings  are  marked, 
every  oil  lamp-post  is  numbered,  every  area  railing 
accurately  drawn,  every  front  door  and  lintel  differenti- 
ated, and  even  the  long-vanished  hedges  and  trees 
are  nicely  portrayed.  The  street  line  thus  captured  is 
that  from  Hyde  Park  Corner  to  Counter's  Bridge, 
beyond  Kensington  High  Street,  as  it  appeared  in  1811. 
The  High  Street  itself  is  there,  house  by  house,  and 
window  by  window — the  High  Street  which  Leigh 
Hunt  loved.  Every  door  in  these  miles  stands,  as  it 
were,  to  be  rapped  at — the  pillared  tavern  door  through 
which  was  borne  the  dripping  corpse  of  Shelley's  first 
wife,  and  the  buff  house  door  from  which  Sir  David 
Wilkie  stepped  out  to  take  the  air  when  he  had  done 
enough  work  on  "  The  Chelsea  Pensioners  "  or  **  Blind 
Man's  Buff."  This  record  was  made  for  the  Kensing- 
ton Turnpike  Trust  by  its  surveyor,  Joseph  Salway. 
Whether  he  exceeded  his  instructions  in  a  generous 
regard    for    posterity    I    do    not    know.      The    fact 


THE   VEILS   OF   YESTERDAY  19 

remains  that  the  plans  which  were  made  for  the  use  of 
clerks  and  contractors  are  things  of  beauty  and 
historical  interest.  Their  value  is  such  that  they  have 
been  reproduced  in  thirty  sections  by  the  London 
Topographical  Society.  When  these  sections  are  laid 
together  they  form  the  closest  reproduction  of  an  old 
London  street  one  can  hope  to  see,  and  the  boon  is 
completed  by  the  topographical  notes  prepared  by 
Colonel  W.  F.  Prideaux.  The  Survey  loses  none  of  its 
minuteness  even  when  the  road  is  emptiest.  The 
hedges  and  their  clay  root-earth  are  drawn  as  faithfully 
as  the  residential  bricks.  Beyond  old  Kensington 
Church  there  is  little  but  banks  and  ditches  on  both 
sides  of  the  road,  which  runs  through  open  country  as 
far  as  Stamford  Brook.  The  plans  end  at  Counter's 
Bridge  with  Lee  and  Kennedy's  Nursery.  At  this 
point  the  responsibilities  of  the  Kensington  Turnpike 
Trustees  ceased. 

Such  elaborate  street  portraiture  as  this  may  be  an 
impracticable  luxury,  but  simpler  records  would  suffice. 
Tallis's  "  London  Street  Views,"  issued  in  1838-40,  gives 
the  exact  elevations  of  dozens  of  entire  streets  in  out- 
line, and  these,  with  the  help  of  advertisements,  were 
sold  at  three  halfpence  each.  I  believe  that  no  such 
drawings  have  been  made  since. 

Happily,  many  London  streets  change  very  slowly. 
If  you  would  know  how  a  once  rural  street  may 
preserve  a  quiet  self-respect  amid  modernity,  turn 
from  Oxford  Street  into  Marylebone  High  Street.  Or 
you  may  stand  on  Camberwell  Green  and  see  roaring 
tides  of  humanity  go  this  way  and  that,  but,  by  some 
miracle,  leave  Denmark  Hill  to  be  a  place  of  quiet 
breathing,  where  weather-stained  oak  palings  wander 
up  a  pleasant  hill,  flanked  with  old  houses,  and  silent 
lawns  whose  cedars  imprison  the  night.     You  wander 


20  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

over  Heme  Hill,  where  apricots  are  ripening  in  Ruskin's 
garden,  and  descend  to  Dulwich.  Or  you  climb  to 
Norwood,  and  just  when  you  need  to  be  reminded  that 
London,  though  composite,  is  single,  and  though 
changed  is  continuous,  you  come  to  the  crest  of  Gipsy 
Hill ;  and  there — far  over  trees,  roofs,  and  blurred 
town — the  Dome  and  Cross. 

Peering  into  this  camp  of  men,  without  shape  or 
bound,  one  must  acknowledge  that  the  love  of  London 
is  not  quite  the  emotion  that  it  was  a  hundred,  or  fifty, 
or  even  twenty-five  years  ago.  It  may  be  as  deep,  but 
it  is  different.  Dr.  Johnson's  dictum  that  the  man  who 
is  tired  of  London  is  tired  of  life  was  uttered  in  a  com- 
pact town  whose  men  of  intellect  could  meet  with  ease 
and  frequency,  and  whose  ordinary  citizens  had  no 
thought  of  travel  or  *^  escape."  But  London's  growth 
has  destroyed  literary  society  as  Johnson  understood 
it,  and  tens  of  thousands  of  Londoners  are  actually 
tired  of  town  life.  Every  newspaper  and  hoarding 
interprets  the  Londoner's  wish  for  green  pastures  and 
still  waters.  No  longer  is  it  the  quiet  pioneering  of  the 
rich  that  we  see.  The  people,  the  average  million,  are 
resolved  to  suck  where  the  bee  sucks.  An  immense 
passion  for  verandas  and  deck-chairs  has  swept  over 
the  town,  and  the  speculator  can  now  erect  whole 
villages  of  pseudo-antique  cottages  with  white  walls 
and  plum-coloured  roofs  in  the  certainty  that  Lon- 
doners will  fill  them.  Behind  these  trekking  thou- 
sands, the  working  class  is  pressing  into  the  country, 
desirous  or  driven  ;  and  for  the  vast  humble  popula- 
tion still  pent  in  the  streets  there  is  an  ever-growing 
system  of  briefer  escape.  The  small  Londoner  no 
longer  takes  **a  walk  round  the  houses"  on  Sunday 
morning.  The  proletarian  motor-bus  from  Charing 
Cross    is  found  at   rest   by  the   elm-shaded   inns  of 


» 


THE  VEILS   OF  YESTERDAY  21 

Harrow  Weald  and  Pinner.  Northwood,  which  was  a 
primitive  hamlet,  is  now  a  small  town  ;  populous 
Watford  is  being  connected  with  Euston  by  a  new  line  ; 
and  the  London  tram-cars  grind  through  the  old  High 
Street  of  Uxbridge. 

Meanwhile  the  eyes  of  villadom  travel  yet  farther,  in 
search  of  less  dusty  roads,  deeper  peace,  and  a  more 
sacrosanct  apartness  with  the  cuckoo.  Where  will  it 
end  ?  London  as  a  city  of  all-round  living  and  amenity 
is  dissolving  under  our  eyes.  The  desertion  of  the 
City  by  residents  has  been  followed  by  the  desertion 
of  great  districts  like  Islington  and  Brixton.  In  the 
last  ten  years  only  nine  of  the  London  boroughs  have 
increased  their  population  ;  twenty  have  suffered 
decreases  ranging  from  i  to  27  per  cent.  Even  a 
comparatively  open  district  like  Marylebone  has  lost 
15,000  inhabitants  in  the  last  ten  years.  Westminster 
has  lost  23,000,  Holborn  10,000,  St.  Pancras  17,000, 
Islington  7,000.  This  outward  movement  of  the 
higher  classes,  so  creditable  to  the  natural  man,  so 
healthy  in  its  immediate  purpose,  has  begun  to  beget 
doubt  and  inquiry.  When  the  sun  and  moon  parted, 
the  sun  lost  substance  and  the  moon  heat :  the  flight 
of  the  middle  cJass  has  reached  a  point  when  one  may 
wonder  whether  an  analogy  arises.  Old  London 
neighbourhoods  are  emptied  of  their  more  prosperous 
and  cultivated  residents,  and  the  vacuum  created  is 
filled  by  a  meaner  population.  Yet  the  "  going  down  " 
of  an  urban  district  is  not  so  much  the  calamity  as  the 
separation  of  classes  that  were  contiguous,  and  the 
consequent  loss  to  the  colour  and  variety  of  the  town. 
In  the  streets  the  poor  are  left  with  the  poor,  in  the 
fields  the  well-to-do  simmer  in  the  juice  of  a  tepid 
selectness.  In  these  new  rural  colonies  the  social 
equation  is  distorted.     They  are  pleasant  places,  these 


22  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

villages  of  villas,  with  their  near  rabbits  and  pheasants, 
their  garden  hues  and  hauteurs  of  pampas  grass,  and 
their  tinkling  te^-cups  on  the  golf-club  veranda.  But 
at  present  they  are  hybrid  and  unsocial.  All  these 
nice  people,  who  have  come  apart  to  sit  under  their 
fig-trees,  go  every  day  to  London  to  toil,  to  array 
themselves,  to  be  amused,  and  even  to  be  fed.  They 
are  of  London,  though  not  in  it  ;  they  are  in  the 
country,  but  not  of  it.  And  their  villadom,  a  self- 
conscious  maiden  with  many  flowers  laden,  shows 
as  a  moon,  beautiful,  but  rather  cold  and  fruitless,  in 
London's  sky. 

The  love  of  London  is  now  unlike  the  love  of  any 
other  city,  in  that  it  never  beholds,  still  less  embraces, 
its  object.  No  tendrils  can  encompass  a  city  that 
seems  coextensive  with  life,  and,  like  life,  a  sphere  of 
elective  affinities  and  boundless  irrelevance.  We  do 
not  say  that  we  love  life,  except  in  rhetoric  or  extremity ; 
we  love  the  "warm  precincts"  we  find  in  it.  A  big 
city  can  be  loved  in  the  intimate  sense,  but  hardly  one 
that  is  multiple  and  measureless.  The  Bristol  man 
can  love  Bristol  for  its  trady  little  central  streets  and 
water-gleams,  whence  he  sees  windows  flashing  in  the 
remote  sky,  and  the  trees  brushing  the  Clifton  heights 
where  his  children  run.  The  Newcastle  man  can  love 
his  old  abyss  of  river  toil  and  song,  crowned  by 
castle,  moot-hall,  and  cathedral ;  and  the  Birmingham 
man  loves  with  a  racial  love  his  friendly  New  Street 
and  its  clustered  institutions.  When  these  exclaim  on 
their  birthplaces,  we  see  the  town  in  the  townsman, 
and  hear  it  hum  in  its  breath,  but  he  who  in  these 
days  mouthes  a  too-familiar  love  of  London  should 
be  named  Leontes. 

What,   then,   is    the    feeling    which    London    still 
inspires  ?    It  is  less  an  intimate  sentiment,  or  a  rapture 


THE   VANISHED    STRAND    (OPPOSITE    SOMERSET    HOUSE) 

FEW    THINGS    ARE    MORE    IRRECOVERABLE   THAN    THE    LOOK    OV    A   STREET   THAT    HAS    BEEN 
DISPLACED    OR    REBUILT      (P.   l8) 


THE  VEILS  OF  YESTERDAY  23 

of  possession,  than  an  awe  and  joy  evoked  by  human 
life  itself.  London's  immense  connotation  of  the 
human  story  diffuses  in  the  mind,  in  moments  of 
exaltation,  that  ether  of  history  in  which  "many 
Ninevehs  and  Hecatompyloi "  are  alive  and  rever- 
berant. We  are  of  Babylon  and  Nineveh  and  Athens 
and  Rome.  Such  feelings  are  hardly  human  nature's 
daily  food.  Yet  the  Londoner  feels  passionately  that 
the  small  things  he  has  seen  and  done  are  significant 
because  they  have  been  enacted  in  London.  "  Bless 
my  dear  eyes,"  said  Mr.  Roker,  shaking  his  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side,  and  gazing  abstractedly  out  of  the 
grated  window  before  him,  as  if  he  were  fondly  recall- 
ing some  peaceful  scene  of  his  early  youth,  "  it  seems 
but  yesterday  that  he  wopped  the  coal-heaver  down 
Fox-under-the-Hill  by  the  wharf  there.  I  think  I  can 
see  him  now,  a-coming  up  the  Strand  between  the  two 
street-keepers,  a  little  sobered  by  the  bruising,  with 
a  patch  o'  winegar  and  brown  paper  over  his  right 
eyelid,  and  that  'ere  lovely  bulldog,  as  pinned  the  little 
boy  arterwards,  a-following  at  his  heels.  What  a  rum 
thing  time  is,  ain't  it,  Neddy  ?  "  The  leather-hearted 
turnkey  of  the  Fleet  prison  was  not  the  man  to  recall 
the  whopping  of  a  coal-heaver  with  a  sigh  of  rich 
recollection,  if  that  were  all.  But  it  was  his  abiHty  to 
evoke  the  event  from  a  remote  dailiness  of  the  ancient 
and  continuing  Strand,  and  his  sense  of  intimacy 
with  one  bulldog  in  London's  immemorial  and 
interminable  "fancy"  that  deepened  the  tones  and 
very  nearly  dimmed  the  eye  of  old  Roker  of  the  Fleet. 
Thus  it  is  with  us  all,  and  better.  For  a  London 
memory  is  often  transmuted  into  a  symbol  by  the 
pressure  of  its  great  environment.  We  may  have  stood 
iFor  a  few  minutes,  how  long  ago  we  cannot  tell,  to  watch 
the  plane-leaves  falling  in  showers  against  the  Abbey 


24  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

walls,  and  now  autumn  assumes  that  picture.  We 
may  have  felt  on  certain  glittering  nights — as  who  has 
not  ? — the  singular  freshness  of  the  west  wind  in 
Oxford  Street,  and  the  remote  hour  returns  on  the 
wind.  Or,  when  summer  first  touches  us,  we  think 
of  the  great  days  of  enchantment  that  will  roll  again 
over  Hyde  Park  and  Kensington  Gardens  when  the 
palms  are  spread,  and  the  axles  burn,  and  the  parapet 
of  the  Serpentine  Bridge  is  warm  to  the  arms  of  lovers. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE   FIRST   PERCH 

London  in  the  Nursery — The  New-comer — A  Wessex  Squire — Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds — To  London  in  a  Huff — A  Shy  Lawyer — The 
Refusers — Robert  Buchanan  in  Stamford  Street — "  Come  out  of  her, 
O  my  people  " — The  "  First  Perch  " — Hoxton — A  Window  in  Islington 
— Charles  Lamb — "Alexander  the  Corrector" — Abraham  Newland — 
The  Bailiff's  Daughter — The  MissingCow — Plackett's  Common — "  Pop 
Goes  the  Weasel " — Bunhill  Fields — Dining  on  Young's  "  Night 
Thoughts  "—The  Temple  of  the  Muses— Shepherdess  Walk— Dodd 
the  Dustman — Goswell  Street — Claremont  Square — Old  Pentonville — 
A  Noisy  Saint — Carlyle  and  the  Brickfields 

I  HOPE  there  are  still  youths  who,  when  they 
come  to  London,  think  of  Troy  and  Bagdad 
and  Eldorado.  For  the  heart  of  London's 
mystery  is  enshrined  in  myth  and  faery.  No  summary 
of  events  or  massing  of  figures  can  fill  out  the  nursery 
vision  of  London's  golden  pavements,  the  Lord  Mayor 
in  his  coach,  and  the  great  Bell  of  Bow — that  vision 
which  Wordsworth  expressed  in  "  The  Prelude  " — 

Would  that  I  could  now 
Recall  what  then  I  pictured  to  myself. 
Of  mitred  Prelates,  Lords  in  ermine  clad, 
The  King,  and  the  King's  Palace,  and,  not  last, 
Nor  least,  Heaven  bless  him  !  the  renowned  Lord  Mayor  ! 

A  too  emotional  coming  to  London  was  that  of  a 
West  Country  traveller  who  entered  the  Metropolis  on 

25 


26  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

a  coach  early  in  the  last  century.  All  went  well  as  far 
as  Brentford.  Seeing  the  lamps  of  that  outlying 
village,  the  countryman  imagined  that  he  was  at  his 
journey's  end,  but  as  mile  succeeded  mile  of  illumina- 
tion he  asked  in  alarm,  "  Are  we  not  yet  in  London, 
and  so  many  miles  of  lamps  ? "  At  last,  at  Hyde 
Park  Corner,  he  was  told  that  this  was  London  ;  but 
still  the  lamps  receded  and  the  streets  lengthened, 
until  he  sank  into  a  coma  of  astonishment.  When 
they  entered  Lad  Lane,  the  Cheapside  coaching  centre, 
a  travelling  companion  bade  the  West  Countryman 
remain  in  the  coffee-room  while  he  made  inquiries. 
On  returning  he  found  no  trace  of  him,  nor  did  he 
hear  any  more  of  him  for  six  weeks.  He  then  learned 
that  he  was  in  custody  in  Dorsetshire — a  lunatic.  The 
poor  fellow  was  taken  home,  and  after  a  brief  return 
of  his  reason  he  died.  He  was  able  to  explain  that  he 
had  become  more  and  more  bewildered  by  the  lights 
and  by  the  endless  streets,  from  which  he  thought  he 
should  never  be  able  to  escape.  Somehow,  he  walked 
blindly  westward,  and  at  last  emerged  into  the  country 
bereft  of  memory  and  wits.  I  have  always  respected 
this  Dorsetshire  squire ;  other  arrivals  seem  tame  in 
comparison. 

The  garrulous  Cyrus  Redding  relates  nothing  better 
than  his  own  arrival  in  the  centre  of  human  gossip. 
He  had  journeyed  in  the  Bath  coach,  better  supplied 
with  money  and  introductions  than  most  new-comers. 
And  he  had  the  taste  for  London  :  "  I  took  up  my 
quarters  at  Hatchett's  Hotel,  Piccadilly.  There  was 
a  rout  in  Arlington  Street  the  same  night,  and  the  roll 
of  the  carriages  kept  me  awake.  I  rose  unrefreshed, 
put  a  letter  or  two  of  introduction  into  my  pocket,  and 
set  out :  *  The  world  before  me  where  to  choose  my 
place  of  rest.' "     There  you  have  the  sense  of  arrival  in 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  27 

London — the  world's  capital.  He  rose  the  next  morn- 
ing and  ascended  the  Monument,  and  "  shot "  the 
rapids  at  London  Bridge,  and  within  a  few  days  he 
saw  the  burial  of  Pitt  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

One  of  the  best  pictured  arrivals  of  this  kind  is  that 
of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  He  was  eighteen  when  the 
coach  brought  him  from  Plymouth  to  London,  taking 
more  time  on  the  journey  than  the  *'  Lusitania"  takes 
to  cross  the  Atlantic.  The  place  where  his  feet  touched 
the  stones  of  London  was  the  White  Horse  Cellar 
Tavern  in  Piccadilly.  The  Piccadilly  tavern  which 
now  bears  that  name,  and  the  inscription  "  Established 
1720,"  is  not  the  tavern  Sir  Joshua  saw.  This  stood, 
then  and  long  after,  over  the  way,  close  to  Arlington 
Street.  When  he  arrived  on  that  autumn  evening  in 
1740,  Sir  Robert  Walpole  was  probably  eating  his 
dinner  in  his  Arlington  Street  house.  But  the  young 
artist  had  no  time  to  gaze  ;  he  must  find  the  house 
of  Thomas  Hudson,  the  portrait  painter,  to  whom  he 
was  bound  apprentice.  Hudson's  house  in  Great 
Queen  Street  is  still  standing.  A  porter  shouldered 
his  baggage  and  led  the  way  across  Leicester  Fields. 
There  a  prosperous  journey  was  to  end  in  disappoint- 
ment. The  great  man  had  gone  the  way  that  his  pupil 
had  come,  and  was  painting  the  portraits  of  lords  and 
ladies  at  Bath.  Where  was  the  apprentice  to  sleep  ? 
Fortunately  he  had  an  uncle  in  the  Temple,  and 
there,  above  the  gardens  beloved  by  Spenser,  he  slept 
that  night,  unaware  that  to  these  quiet  courts  his 
dearest  friends  would  come — Johnson  to  work,  Gold- 
smith to  die. 

Men  have  come  to  London  in  many  moods. 
Alexander  Wedderburn  (Lord  Loughborough),  whose 
old  house  is  marked  by  a  tablet  in  Russell  Square, 
came  to  London  in  a  huff.     He  might  have  remained 


28  A   I.ONDONER'S   LONDON 

all  his  life  at  the  Scotch  Bar  but  for  a  violent  alter- 
cation which  he  had  with  a  fellow-barrister,  Mr. 
Lockhart,  then  the  Dean  of  Faculty.  During  a  trial 
the  Dean  called  his  young  opponent  a  "  presumptuous 
boy."  Wedderburn,  bursting  with  rage,  said  :  "The 
learned  Dean  has  confined  himself  on  this  occasion  to 
vituperation  ;  I  do  not  say  that  he  is  capable  of  reason- 
ing, but  if  tears  would  have  answered  his  purpose  I  am 
sure  tears  would  not  have  been  wanting."  The  Dean 
muttered  threats  of  vengeance,  and  Wedderburn  pro- 
ceeded :  "  I  care  little,  my  lords,  what  may  be  said  or 
done  by  a  man  who  has  been  disgraced  in  his  person 
and  dishonoured  in  his  bed."  The  Court  was  now 
aghast,  and  the  Lord  President  declared  that  "this 
was  language  unbecoming  an  advocate  and  a  gentle- 
man." Wedderburn  retorted  that  "his  lordship  had 
said  as  a  judge  what  he  could  not  justify  as  a  gentle- 
man." The  Court  gravely  consulted  as  to  how  this 
hot-headed  young  man  should  be  quelled,  and  it  was 
resolved  that  he  must  retract  his  words  or  suffer 
deprivation.  Wedderburn  rose,  and  with  deadly  calm 
said  :  "  My  lords,  I  neither  retract  nor  apologize,  but 
I  will  save  you  the  trouble  of  deprivation  ;  there  is  my 
gown" — here  he  stripped  it  from  his  shoulders — "and 
I  will  never  wear  it  more,  virtute  me  involvo,"  He 
then  walked  out  of  court,  and  that  night  started  for 
London  and  the  Woolsack. 

The  manner  of  Wedderburn's  coming  to  London 
suggests,  by  contrast,  the  efforts  which  John  Eardley 
Wilmot,  afterwards  Lord  Chief  Justice,  made  to  quit 
London  for  ever.  He  feared  to  get  on,  and  avoided 
success  as  carefully  as  other  men  seek  it.  His  efforts 
to  hide  his  candle  under  a  bushel  failed.  But  when  a 
seat  in  Parliament  was  offered  him  he  knew  that  he 
must  fly.     In  a  quiet  street  in  Derby,  on  a  patrimony 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  29 

of  a  few  hundreds  a  year,  Wilmot  settled  down  to  be 
an  obscure  local  lawyer.  Twelve  months  of  peace 
were  granted  him,  and  then,  without  his  previous 
knowledge,  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  there  fell  on  him 
the  appointment  to  be  a  Puisne  Judge  of  the  King's 
Bench.  He  declared  that  nothing  would  persuade 
him  to  face  again  the  roar  and  smoke  of  London,  but 
the  advice  of  friends  and  his  sense  of  duty  prevailed  : 
he  returned.  The  calm  of  his  career  on  the  bench  was 
broken  only  by  his  promotion  to  the  Lord  Chief 
Justiceship,  and  the  offer  of  the  Great  Seal,  which  by 
summoning  all  his  powers  he  successfully  refused. 
Full  of  years  and  honours,  he  retired  in  1770,  vainly 
imploring  the  King  not  to  grant  him  a  pension. 

Not  a  few  young  men  have  left  the  provincial  ark  to 
find  no  place  in  London  on  which  they  could  rest 
their  feet,  or  they  have  refused  London's  gifts.  Thomas 
Bewick  left  Newcastle  for  London,  looked  round  him, 
and  as  deliberately  returned  to  Newcastle.  In  his 
maturer  years  he  wrote  :  "  For  my  part  I  am  of  the 
same  opinion  now  as  I  was  when  in  London,  and  that 
is  that  I  would  rather  herd  sheep  on  Mickley  Bank  top 
than  remain  in  London,  though  by  doing  so  I  should 
be  made  the  Premier  of  England."  Look  at  his 
drawings  :  you  feel  that  he  could  not  have  been  happy 
away  from  that  noble  beacon  of  the  Tyne,  which 
appears  in  them  again  and  again,  the  lantern  tower 
of  St.  Nicholas'  Cathedral,  with  its  thirteen  flashing 
vanes,  which  Ben  Jonson  thought  was  worth  the 
journey  from  London  to  see. 

Just  as  clear  was  John  Dalton  that  London  was  not 
his  true  environment.  ^^  A  most  surprising  place,"  he 
wrote,  '*  worth  one's  while  to  see  once,  but  the  most 
disagreeable  place  on  earth  for  one  of  a  contempla- 
tive turn  to   reside   in   constantly."      He  returned  to 


30  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Manchester,  and  made  it  the  birthplace  of  the  Atomic 
Theory.  Yet  more  contemplative  men  than  Dalton 
have  made  their  homes  in  London. 

A  very  good  hater  of  London  was  Philip  Gilbert 
Hamerton.  As  a  boy  he  came  to  a  resolution  in  these 
words  :  "  Every  Englishman  who  can  afiford  it  ought 
to  see  London  once,  as  a  patriotic  duty,  and  I  am  not 
sorry  to  have  been  there  to  have  got  that  duty  per- 
formed ;  but  no  power  on  earth  shall  ever  induce 
me  to  go  to  that  supremely  disagreeable  place  again." 
Later  in  life  he  supplemented  this,  and  w  jce  :  '^  It  is 
curious,  but  perfectly  true,  that  I  have  never  in  my  life 
felt  the  slightest  desire  to  purchase  or  rent  any  house 
whatever  in  London,  and  there  is  not  a  house  in  all  the 
'  wilderness  of  brick '  that  I  would  accept  as  a  free  gift 
if  it  were  coupled  with  the  condition  that  I  should  live 
in  it." 

Few  well-nurtured  youths  have  made  a  more  curious 
entry  into  London  than  the  late  Mr.  Robert  Buchanan, 
the  only  author  whom  I  have  seen  standing  behind 
his  own  publishing  counter.  In  May,  i860,  he  arrived 
at  King's  Cross  from  Glasgow  without  plans  or  pros- 
pects, and  minus  his  railway  ticket,  which  he  had  lost 
on  the  journey.  After  some  trouble  with  the  station 
authorities,  who  detained  his  luggage,  he  breakfasted 
at  a  coffee-house  and  strolled  into  Regent's  Park, 
where  he  laid  down  on  the  grass  to  think.  There  he 
encountered  a  youth  of  his  own  age,  who  reminded 
him  of  the  Artful  Dodger.  To  him  he  owed  his  first 
night's  sleep  in  London,  in  a  lodging-house  or  thieves' 
kitchen  near  Shoreditch,  where  next  morning  he  awoke 
none  the  worse,  and  with  the  little  money  he  had  in 
his  pocket  safe.  A  week  later  he  found  his  first  perch 
in  London,  a  garret  at  No.  66  Stamford  Street.  It  is 
curious  that  his  friend  David  Gray,  the  young  Glasgow 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  31 

poet,  spent  his  first  night  in  London  wandering  about 
Hyde  Park.  Later,  he  shared  with  Buchanan  what 
he  afterwards  called  ^'the  dear  old  ghostly  bankrupt 
garret "  in  Stamford  Street.  Disappointed  in  literature 
and  weakened  by  mortal  illness,  David  Gray  asked 
only  that  he  might  not  die  in  London,  and  one  winter 
morning  Buchanan  put  his  friend  into  the  Scotch 
express  at  Euston.  "  Home — home — home,"  was 
his  cry. 

It  is  of  the  significance  of  London  that  it  inspires 
both  love  and  hate,  irresistible  lure  and  strong  refusal. 
In  one  great  man  it  bred  a  lifelong  tragedy  of  doubt. 
Few  things  in  modern  biography  are  more  touching 
than  the  unbreakable  thread  of  regret  for  country 
silence  which  ran  through  the  London  life  of  Edward 
Burne-Jones.  The  dreamer  of  beautiful  dreams 
became  a  Londoner,  and  a  London  society  man. 
He  dined  out,  and  was  socially  bound  and  driven. 
Yet  a  vision  of  his  youth  followed  him  like  a  jilted 
ego.  It  was  in  185 1,  when  he  was  a  Birmingham 
youth  of  eighteen,  that  he  walked  over  from  Harris 
Bridge,  where  he  paid  a  yearly  visit  to  some  friends,  to 
see  the  Cistercian  Monastery  in  Charnwood  Forest. 
What  he  saw  that  day  left  a  lifelong  picture  on  his 
mind,  though  it  is  not  certain  that  he  ever  returned 
to  the  place  again.  In  her  beautiful  biography  of  her 
husband.  Lady  Burne-Jones  writes  :  "  Friends,  wife, 
and  children  all  knew  the  undercurrent  of  longing  in 
his  soul  for  the  rest  and  peace  which  he  thought  he 
had  seen  there  that  day."  But  London  loaded  him 
with  personal  fetters,  and  her  streets  crept  round  his 
Fulham  home.  The  District  Railway  growled  near, 
some  fine  elms  came  down,  Fulham  began  to  call 
itself  West  Kensington,  and  callers  came  in  crowds  to 
utter   social  shibboleths   round   the  painter  of  ^' The 


32  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Sleep  of  Arthur  in  Avalon."  London  was  slowly 
killing  the  dream  that  had  pleased  his  boyish  thought. 
At  last  his  protests  against  its  demands  became 
poignant.  Year  after  year  he  vowed  to  forsake  the 
rush.  "  How  I  want  to  be  out  of  it ;  and  more  and 
more  my  heart  is  pining  for  that  monastery  in  Charn- 
wood  Forest.  Why  there  ?  I  don't  know,  only  that  I 
saw  it  when  I  was  little,  and  have  hankered  after  it 
ever  since.  .  .  .  Many  a  time  I  plan  flight  and  escape 
— only  the  work  I  do  is  so  unportable,  it  holds  me 
to  it,  and  I  cannot  carry  it  with  me  !  .  .  .  *  Come  out 
of  her,  O  my  people.' " 

No  one  wrote  more  bitterly  of  London  than  George 
Gissing,  but  when  his  Henry  Ryecroft  looks  back  on 
his  old  lodging-houses,  the  old  trite  street-corners, 
the  restaurants  and  coffee-shops  where  he  found 
insufficient  nourishment,  he  exclaims  :  ^^  Some  day  I 
will  go  to  London  and  spend  a  day  or  two  amid  the 
dear  old  horrors."  He  meant  his  first  London 
lodgings,  where  he  was  better  provided  with  hope 
than  money.  A  Londoner  can  forget  much,  but  his 
"first  perch,"  as  Lord  Eldon  called  it  (anticipating 
somewhat  Disraeli's  remark,  "  London  is  a  roost  for 
every  bird"),  is  a  lasting  memory.  Eldon,  then  John 
Scott,  brought  his  Bessy  and  his  bairns  to  Cursitor 
Street.  He  would  say  in  his  years  of  fame  and 
dignity,  "There  was  my  first  perch.  Many  a  time 
have  I  run  down  from  Cursitor  Street  to  Fleet  Market 
to  buy  sixpenn'orth  of  sprats  for  our  supper."  A  like 
story  is  told  of  Lord  Northington  :  when  he  reached 
the  Woolsack  and  a  mansion  in  Grosvenor  Square,  he 
and  his  wife  looked  back  wistfully  to  their  small  house 
in  Great  James  Street,  Bedford  Row,  where  a  leg  of 
mutton  had  lasted  three  days — the  first  day  hot,  the 
second  day  cold,  and  the  third  day  hashed. 


THE   FIRST  PERCH  33 

The  first  perch  !  There  was  no  reason  why  I  should 
have  chosen  my  own  in  the  dismal  region  of  Hoxton. 
But  when  I  had  found  acceptance  in  the  City  and  was, 
so  to  speak,  a  licensed  Londoner,  I  had  no  better  plan 
than  to  walk  in  random  search  of  a  roof.  I  like 
to  remember  that  casual  faring  into  London's  arms. 
As  it  happened,  I  wandered  north,  up  Moorgate  Street, 
past  the  Artillery  ground,  blinking  with  joy  when  I 
saw  Finsbury  Square,  nobly  metropolitan,  and  the  Bun- 
hill  burial-ground — eloquent  of  the  City's  dusty  past. 

I  walked  up  the  New  North  Road  without  rudder, 
and  thought  that  the  names  above  the  little  shops  of 
clockmakers,  newsagents,  and  small  milliners  were 
possible  only  in  London  and  in  the  novels  of  Dickens. 
In  a  side-street  a  decent  house  showed  a  card  in  its 
window,  and  in  five  minutes  I  was  lord  of  a  chamber 
whose  windows  looked  on  the  mysterious  "  backs  "  of 
another  street.  That  night  I  said  :  These,  then,  are 
London  dwellings,  and  they  were  old  before  I  was 
born.  A  light  would  travel  up  some  stairs,  gleaming 
and  failing  as  it  went  up  from  landing  to  landing. 
Resolving  to  make  a  unique  collection  of  London  shop- 
keepers' names,  I  fell  asleep.  I  have  never  made  that 
collection,  but  I  believe  that  the  only  man  in  London 
named  Oliver  Twist  lives  to-day  in  my  old  Hoxton. 

George  Gissing  knew  Hoxton.  He  writes  in 
"  Demos "  :  ^'  On  the  dim  borderland  of  Islington 
and  Hoxton,  in  a  corner  made  by  the  intersection 
of  the  New  North  Road  and  the  Regent's  Canal,  is 
discoverable  an  irregular  triangle  of  small  dwelling- 
houses,  bearing  the  name  of  Wilton  Square."  Here 
he  laid  the  home  of  the  Mutimer  family.  Wilton 
Square  still  answers  to  Gissing's  picture,  even  to  the 
railings  and  the  front  doors  "  reached  by  an  ascent  of 
five   steps."      He   describes   the  canal — ^'  inaladetta  e 

D 


34  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

sventurata  fossa — stagnating  in  utter  foulness  between 
coal-wharfs  and  builders'  yards."  But  London  ac- 
commodates itself  to  no  phrases,  and  when  I  went 
that  way  last  summer  the  canal  was  not  very  foul,  the 
sky  above  it  was  blue,  and  between  two  bridges,  each 
bearing  a  knot  of  onlookers,  a  score  of  naked  figures 
made  one  connect  Hoxton  with  sun-clad  boyhood  :  the 
truth  of  the  *'  Demos  "  picture  was  curiously  suspended. 
If  you  are  not  sealed  of  the  tribe  of  Gissing,  or  a 
little  mad  on  localities,  I  can  suggest  no  reason  why 
you  should  search  out  Wilton  Square. 

One  night  the  lights  and  crowds  of  Islington  High 
Street  burst  upon  my  view.  I  saw  my  mistake,  and 
soon  afterwards  quitted  the  vale  for  the  plateau.  I 
was  now  to  look  down  on  the  Islington  High  Street 
itself,  which  Ryecroft  condemns  as  dreary  and  ugly — 
I  cannot  think  why.  Its  long  western  curve  of  old 
houses  set  on  a  raised  pavement  has  a  grace  of  its 
own,  and  at  that  time  sundry  scraps  of  the  old  village 
green  survived.  The  shops  of  Upper  Street  and  the  little 
caf^s  about  the  *^  Angel,"  the  ceaseless  uphill  arrivals  of 
tram-cars  from  the  City  and  King's  Cross,  the  white 
electric  light  over  the  theatre,  and  the  vague  traditions 
of  merriment,  and  bailiff's  daughters,  and  fat  cattle, 
made  up  a  sum  of  cheerfulness  that  contented  me. 
From  Colebrooke  Row  I  looked  down  on  the  barges 
coming  from  Wales,  and  emerging  with  all  their 
suggestions  of  fields  and  horizons  from  the  mysterious 
Caledonian  Tunnel. 

Particularly  on  Sunday  morning  it  was  pleasant  in 
1886  to  look  out  on  the  long  bend  of  Upper  Street 
between  the  Liverpool  Road  and  the  Agricultural 
Hall,  and  to  watch  through  the  tree-trunks  the 
omnibuses  passing  with  tinkle  and  hoof-beat.  Even 
now — and  there  have  been  dire  changes  since  1886 — 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  $$ 

the  pleasant  old  village  asserts  itself.  Come  to  it  from 
the  north  and  you  feel  its  ancient  bounds  and  com- 
pactness when  you  pass  St.  Mary's  Church.  Climb  ta 
it  from  the  south,  west,  or  east,  and  the  sight  of  that 
busy  corner  at  the  "Angel "  is  exhilarating  if  you  have 
London  charity.  You  are  aware  of  a  population  and 
an  atmosphere.  A  hundred  years  ago  Islington  was 
scarcely  connected  with  London  at  all,  and  a  bell  was 
rung  at  the  Angel  Tavern  to  summon  travellers  to 
make  up  a  party  strong  enough  to  proceed  safely  over 
the  fields  to  London.  Roaring  thoroughfares  now 
link  the  Angel  corner  with  the  City,  with  central 
London,  and  with  the  great  railway  centres  down 
there  in  the  misty  mid-region  of  Euston  and  St. 
Pancras.  Yet  Islington  maintains  her  separateness. 
Though  near  to  the  old  London,  she  is  still  a  little 
removed  in  spirit.  Her  theatres,  her  music-hall,  her 
taverns,  her  restaurants,  both  English  and  foreign, 
her  newspapers,  and  her  penny  shows,  announce  a 
hill-top  detachment. 

The  "Angel"  that  Hogarth  knew  (he  portrayed  it 
in  his  Stage  Coach  print)  disappeared  in  1819.  Its 
successor  has  been  replaced  in  recent  years  by  a  new 
building  whose  dome  is  a  landmark  easily  seen  in  the 
roads  that  ascend  to  it. 

Hard  by  the  "  Angel,"  unseen,  because  built  over,  the 
New  River  flows  to  Clerkenwell.  Charles  Lamb's 
famous  cottage,  recently  distinguished  by  one  of  the 
London  County  Council's  tablets,  is  properly  described 
as  No.  64  Duncan  Terrace.  I  look  on  it  with  the 
more  interest  for  the  reason  that  a  few  years  ago  I  had 
the  privilege  of  receiving  a  cup  of  tea  from  Mrs. 
Edward  FitzGerald,  who'very  well  remembered  Charles 
Lamb  in  Colebrooke  Cottage.  As  a  girl  she  was 
the  Lucy  Barton  in  whose  album  Charles  Lamb  wrote 
the  lines  beginning  :  "  Little  book  surnamed  of  white." 


36  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Mrs.  FitzGerald  would  relate  how  she  left  the 
omnibus  with  her  father,  Bernard  Barton,  the  Quaker- 
poet  of  Woodbridge,  and  how  they  rapped  at  this 
door.^  Lamb  seemed  to  have  been  reading,  for  a  folio 
lay  before  him.  She  particularly  remembered  that  in 
a  large  bookcase  nearly  every  volume  bore  the  white 
tickets  which  they  had  worn  when  Lamb  picked  them 
up  on  the  bookstalls.  It  was  like  Lamb  to  be  whimsi- 
cally indifferent  to  their  presence.  Mrs.  FitzGerald 
remembered  little  of  the  talk  between  Lamb  and  her 
father.  It  was  about  books.  They  finished  with  a 
luncheon  of  oysters,  and  then  Lamb,  who  intended  to 
take  a  walk,  saw  them  to  their  omnibus.  Only  ten 
years  ago  it  was  possible  to  listen  to  this  account  of  a 
morning  call  on  Charles  Lamb  in  Islington  eighty 
years  gone.  Much  water  has  flowed  past  Colebrooke 
Cottage  since  then,  and  now  the  stream  is  beneath  the 
ground,  and  beneath  Lamb's  description,  '*  mockery  of 
a  river — liquid  artifice — wretched  conduit  1 " 

From  the  middle  of  Colebrooke  Row  one  passes 
through  Camden  Street  to  a  quaint  little  street,  flagged 
for  foot  -  passengers  only,  called  Camden  Passage. 
This  is  Islington's  version  of  Booksellers'  Row.  It 
is  lined  with  small  miscellaneous  shops  displaying 
picture-frames,  second-hand  books,  old  furniture, 
foreign  stamps,  go-carts,  old  clocks,  and  ornaments 
and  shells  obtained  by  deep  soundings  in  early 
Victorian  parlours.  In  this  by-way  died  Alexander 
Cruden,  author  of  the  *' Concordance."  Apart  from 
his  *'  Concordance,"  he  attracted  much  attention  by  his 
eccentric  benevolences.  Many  people  considered 
him  insane,  but  at  least  "  Alexander  the  Corrector  " 
might  be  written  as  one  who  loved  his  fellow-men — 

•  Sec  Mrs.  Fit/Gerald's  account,  communicated  to  Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas, 
by  whom  it  was  included  in  "Bernard  Baiton  and  his  Friends." 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  37 

always  excepting  John  Wilkes,  and,  perhaps,  the  type 
of  young  clergyman  to  whom  he  once  presented  a 
work  entitled  "  Mother's  Catechism  :  Dedicated  to  the 
Young  and  Ignorant." 

Islington's  list  of  "  worthies  "  is  a  long  one.  The 
lintelled  cottage  of  Phelps,  the  actor,  still  stands  near 
Duncan  Terrace,  facing  a  boarded-in  patch  of  the  old 
green.  Colley  Cibber,  the  dramatist,  is  said  to  have 
died  next  door  to  the  Castle  Tavern,  near  Colebrooke 
Row  ;  Captain  Mayne  Reid  lived  in  a  house  near  the 
Agricultural  Hall  ;  Thomas  Dibdin  had  several 
addresses  in  Islington  ;  and  Canonbury  Tower  was 
the  home,  not  only  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  but  of 
Ephraim  Chambers,  the  compiler  of  the  first  English 
encyclopaedia,  whose  epitaph  in  Bunhill  Fields  de- 
scribes him  as 

Heard  of  by  many, 
Known  to  few. 

This  after  all  must  be  the  usual  lot  of  an  encyclopaedia- 
maker,  and  it  applied  not  less  to  Dr.  Abraham  Rees, 
who  also  lived  in  Canonbury  Tower,  and  published 
his  ^^  Rees's  Cyclopaedia  "  in  forty-five  volumes  some 
ninety  years  ago. 

Another  Islington  writer,  whose  works,  though 
ephemeral,  were  extremely  useful  in  their  genera- 
tion and  always  fetched  their  full  value,  was  Mr. 
Abraham  Newland,  whose  signature  was  on  every 
Bank  of  England  note.  He  died  at  38  Highbury 
Place,  after  retiring  thither  from  twenty-five  years' 
service  as  chief  cashier  of  the  Bank  of  England. 
During  that  period  he  never  once  slept  out  of  the 
Bank.  His  signature  was  so  familiar  that  the  ex- 
pression to  ^*  sham  Abraham  Newland "  became  a 
cant  term  for  forgery. 


38  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Then  there  is  the  bailiff's  daughter.  It  has  long 
been  held  that  the  Islington  of  the  old  ballad  was  an 
obscure  Norfolk  village  of  the  same  name.  This 
theory  cannot  be  suffered  gladly,  and  an  attempt  was 
made  a  few  years  ago  by  Colonel  W.  F.  Prideaux  to 
upset  the  claims  made  by  Bishop  Percy  and  others  for 
the  East  Anglian  hamlet.^  The  chief  argument 
against  the  London  suburb  is  that  the  distance 
between  Islington  and  London,  even  allowing  for  the 
state  of  travel  in  Elizabethan  times,  hardly  accounts 
for  the  '*  seven  long  years "  separation  of  the  lovers. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  the  Norfolk  Islington  be  meant, 
it  is  curious  that  the  ballad  makes  no  mention  of 
nightfall  in  the  girl's  journey  up  to  London  "  her  true 
love  to  inquire."  Colonel  Prideaux  does  not  deal 
with  these  matters,  which,  indeed,  are  too  intangible 
for  much  discussion.  His  exposition  turns  on  a  new 
version  of  the  ballad,  discovered  in  Ireland  by  Mrs. 
C.  Milligan  Fox,  in  which  an  interesting  variation  from 
Bishop  Percy's  version  occurs.    The  ninth  stanza  runs — 

Take  from  me  my  milk-white  steed, 

My  saddle  and  my  bow^ 
And  I  will  away  to  some  foreign  countree, 

Where  no  one  will  we  know. 

instead  of— 

If  she  be  dead,  then  take  my  horse. 

My  saddle  and  bridle  also  ; 
For  I  will  into  some  far  countrye, 

Where  nae  man  shall  me  knowe. 

The  word  "bow"  in  this  version  is  interesting  testi- 
mony to  the  antiquity  of  the  ballad,  but  to  Colonel 
Prideaux  it  suggests  more.  He  remarks  :  "  It  brings 
us  to  the  time  when  the  London  young  man  was  wont 
to  spend  a  good  deal  of  his  spare  time  at  the  '  butts,' 
*  See  "  Notes  and  Queries, "  19  November,  1904. 


THE  FIRST  PERCH  39 

which  were  numerous  in  the  suburbs  of  London 
during  the  Tudor  regime.  Finsbury  Fields  were  the 
favourite  rendezvous  for  the  archers  in  the  north  of 
London,  and  Islington  Butts  were  situated  at  that 
point  of  Islington  Common  where  the  boundary  Imes 
of  Hackney  and  Islington  parishes  meet.  The  turf 
embankments  which  constituted  the  *  butts'  may  be 
said  roughly  to  have  stood  at  the  junction  of  the 
Kingsland  and  the  Ball's  Pond  Roads.  We  can, 
therefore,  imagine  that  the  bailiff's  daughter,  trudging 
along  the  dusty  Shoreditch  Road  on  her  way  to  ^  fair 
London,'  met  the  esquire's  son  riding  forth  with  his 
bow  and  quiver  to  practise  at  the  butts,  with  the 
happy  denouement  that  is  related  in  the  ballad.  .  .  . 
The  date  of  the  ballad  may,  I  think,  be  ascribed  to  the 
latter  half  of  Elizabeth's  reign." 

A  pleasant  Islington  tradition,  repeated  in  several 
other  parts  of  London,  is  that  of  the  999  cows  which 
no  herdmanship  could  increase  to  1000.  The  cows 
belonged  to  Mr.  Laycock,  one  of  the  great  Islington 
cow-keepers  of  the  early  part  of  the  last  century.  Mr. 
Laycock's  ambition  to  achieve  the  round  number  was 
said  to  be  inspired  by  the  statement  that  Job  had  a 
thousand  cattle.  But  the  farmer's  thousandth  cow 
was  always  to  seek.  Laycock's  Yard  in  the  Liverpool 
Road  still  preserves  the  memory  of  this  great  dairy- 
man, who,  however,  had  rivals.  A  Mr.  West  is  stated 
in  Baird's  '*  General  View  of  the  Agriculture  of 
Middlesex "  (quoted  by  Nelson  in  his  ^^  History  of 
Islington  ")  to  have  possessed  nearly  a  thousand  cows 
in  1793.  Moreover,  the  same  legend  about  999  cows 
is  associated  with  Willan's  farm,  on  the  site  of  Regent's 
Park.  The  Islington  cattle-layers  (or  lairs)  were 
situated  on  an  area  bounded  on  the  east  by  the  Upper 
Street  of  IsHngton  and  the  Liverpool  Road,  which  was 


40  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

then  a  comparatively  new  route  for  the  north-western 
mails  between  the  Angel  at  Islington  and  the 
Holloway  Road.  When  Mr.  Laycock  died,  or  pretty 
soon  after,  his  cattle-sheds  were  acquired  by  the 
London  General  Omnibus  Company. 

Apart  from  its  relation  to  Islington,  the  Angel 
Tavern  is  the  half-way  house  on  that  boulevard  that 
failed,  of  which  the  Euston  Road  and  Pentonville  Hill 
are  the  western  stretch  and  the  City  Road  the  eastern.  I 
have  a  kindness  for  the  City  Road,  that  misbegotten 
and  forlorn  artery.  It  was  projected  by  a  Mr.  Charles 
Dingley  in  the  year  1756.  He  was  a  timber  merchant, 
and  he  is  stated  to  have  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt 
to  establish  the  use  of "  that  ingenious  machine,  the  saw- 
mill." It  seems  a  pity  that  he  declined  to  allow  the  road 
to  bear  his  name,  for  had  he  done  so  the  lower  part 
might  have  been  cheerfully  known  as  Dingley  Dell. 

Another  inventor,  less  shy  of  immortality,  gave  his 
name  to  the  first  terrace  on  the  right  as  you  descend 
from  Islington.  Dalby  Terrace  (but  the  name  has 
recently  disappeared)  perpetuates  the  name  of  a  Mr, 
Dalby  who,  greater  even  than  the  Great  Twalmley, 
invented  the  public-house  beer-engine.  He  lived  for 
a  time  in  the  large  house  which  heads  the  terrace  and 
looks  to  the  "Angel."  It  is  now  the  office  of  a  build- 
ing society. 

The  triangular  patch  of  ground  at  this  spot,  known 
to  all  who  know  their  London  by  the  clock  and  obelisk 
at  its  apex,  has  a  curious  history.  It  was  formerly  a 
deep  hollow,  and  was  called  Jack  Plackett's  Common. 
Plackett  was  a  robber.  Born  in  Islington,  he  was  not 
without  local  loyalty,  for  all  his  iniquities  were  done 
within  a  mile  of  the  Angel  Tavern,  and  it  was  on  this 
patch  of  ground  that  he  paid  the  last  penalty  of  the  law 
in  1762.  Jack  Plackett's  Common  became  the  scene 
of  prize-fights. 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  41 

As  a  boy,  I  had  heard  of  the  City  Road  from  a 
schoolfellow  who  was  born  in  Brazil.  There,  amid 
the  scents  of  bananas  and  coffee,  under  a  sun  hotter 
than  the  City  Road's  hottest,  he  had  heard  voices 
trolling  the  verse  ; — 

Up  and  down  the  City  Road, 

In  and  out  the  "Eagle," 
That's  the  way  the  money  goes — 

Pop  goes  the  weasel ! 

It  was  his  first  foretaste  of  London,  and  I  think  he  made 
it  mine.  This  jingle,  like  a  speck  of  radium,  had  given 
me  years  of  mysterious  light.  To  allow  that  light  to 
be  extinguished  in  the  reality  would  have  been  interest- 
ing, but  I  was  too  late  for  the  "  Eagle."  The  tavern, 
indeed,  remained,  and  the  eagle  on  its  roof,  but  the 
Grecian  Saloon  had  suffered  a  change.  I  looked  over 
it  before  its  demolition  in  1901.  It  had  been  occupied 
for  some  years  by  the  Salvation  Army,  but  as  the 
features  of  the  dying  will  assume  youthful  expressions, 
the  ruined  Grecian  declared  its  earliest  uses.  The 
theatre  stood  still,  and  above  the  torn  proscenium 
delicate  vases  and  finials  rose  giltless  and  forlorn. 
Inside  the  theatre  mouldy  Cupids  and  tattered  floral 
designs  rioted  over  the  ceiling  and  round  the  dress- 
circle.  The  orchestra  was  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  but 
the  back  wall  of  the  stage  reared  itself  aloft,  and  in  its 
crevices  the  sparrows  were  building. 

It  was  in  1825,  or  thereabouts,  that  Thomas  Rouse, 
landlord  of  the  '*  Eagle,"  opened  the  saloon  which  was 
to  be  the  last  resort  of  its  kind  and  also  "  the  father 
and  mother,  the  dry  and  wet  nurse  of  the  music 
hall."  I     Singers  whose  names  became  inseparable  from 

*  It  is  thus  characterized  by  the  late  Mr.  John  Hollingshead  in  his 
"  My  Lifetime."    He  points  out  that  the  "  more  or  less  inspired  Ucensed 


42  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

the  Grecian  were  Harry  Howell  and  Robert  Glindon. 
One  night  Paganini,  gyrating  in  the  crowd,  was  so 
mobbed  that  he  had  to  retire.  A  more  typical  frequenter 
was  Miss  Jemima  Evans,  whose  "How  'ev'nly  I  "  is 
familiar  to  the  reader  of  ^'  Boz."  Her  exclamation  was 
inspired  by  the  walks,  the  refreshment-boxes,  "  painted 
and  ornamented  like  so  many  snuff-boxes,"  and  the 
waiters  tearing  about  with  glasses  of  negus.  A  remark 
by  the  gentleman  in  the  plaid  waistcoat  on  Miss 
Jemima's  lady  friend's  ankles  led  to  sudden  war 
between  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins  and  the  waistcoat. 

The  tactical  view-point  of  this  howling  artery  is  its 
intersection  with  Old  Street.  Here  every  face  is  that 
of  a  worker,  and,  as  the  faces  come  and  go,  the  expres- 
sion is  the  same.  In  this  welter  of  business  and  desires 
the  mass  of  St.  Luke's  Lunatic  Asylum  rises  like  a  sad 
suggestion.  A  hundred  and  thirty  years  ago  St.  Luke's 
was  built  as  a  suburban  supplement  to  Bethlem  Hos- 
pital. Now  it  looks  like  a  refuge  for  minds  that  snap 
in  the  street,  as  though  a  man  should  say,  '^  I  will  bear 
it  no  longer,"  and  turn  in  there,  and  be  a  child  again, 
and  look  out  of  those  high  windows  on  the  hurly- 
burly,  forgetful  and  forgot.  Yet  in  the  City  Road  you 
have  a  punctually  toiling,  long-enduring  crowd,  and,  in 
the  evening  hour  of  release,  a  cheerful  one.  The  seats 
on  the  tram-cars  gliding  up  from  Finsbury  Pavement 
are  full,  and  hundreds  are  walking.  Clerks,  foremen, 
compositors,  packers,  warehousemen,  girls  from  the 
factories  of   Finsbury,    Bunhill,    and  Cripplegate   are 

victualler  "  who  founded  the  saloon,  and  ruled  it  nightly  from  a  private 
box  with  the  aid  of  a  huge  walking-stick,  gathered  round  him  many 
singers  and  actors  of  talent.  Here,  before  they  were  known  in  the 
West  End,  appeared  members  of  the  Leclerq  family,  the  great  Frederic 
Robson,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cauldfield,  Mr,  Flexmore,  Mr.  Sims  Reeves 
(who  appeared  in  1809  under  the  name  of  Johnson),  and  many  others 
of  account. 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  43 

hastening    north    to    their    homes  and    lodgings    in 
Hoxton,  Canonbury,  Pentonville,  and  Highbury. 

By  an  impressive  fate  the  City  Road  roars  past  the 
cemetery  of  Bunhill  Fields,  to  which  Southey  gave  the 
name  of  the  Campo  Santo  of  Nonconformity.  Here 
lie  the  heroes  of  Puritan  England,  the  champions  of 
civil  and  religious  liberty,  the  upholders  of  industry 
and  simplicity  of  life.  If  Melrose  must  be  visited  by 
moonlight,  this  field  of  sepulchres  should  be  seen  on 
an  autumn  afternoon  when  the  leaves  are  falling  and  a 
soft  haze  envelops  the  haunts  of  Wesley.  Although 
the  ground  is  thick  with  gravestones,  and  its  gate- 
pillars  inscribed  with  names,  the  number  of  interments 
exceeds  any  that  the  scene  suggests.  That  number 
is  said  to  be  124,000.  The  records,  which  extend  from 
1665  to  1852,  are  intact  in  Somerset  House.  Certain 
graves  give  to  this  harvest  of  death  an  undying 
interest.  Here  Bunyan  ended  his  pilgrim's  progress 
on  earth,  and  in  old  Bibles  there  are  records  that  a 
father  or  a  mother  was  laid  near — so  many  feet — from 
his  grave.  Here  many  Crom wells  are  buried,  Isaac 
Watts's  name  hallows  another  stone,  and  yonder  is  laid 
the  hand  that  wrote  "Robinson  Crusoe."  All  the 
anecdote  of  Dissent  is  recalled  to  your  deciphering 
gaze.  The  name  of  Thomas  Bradbury  recalls  the  last 
days  of  Queen  Anne.  Bradbury  feared  for  the  safety  of 
Dissent,  and  though  he  could  never  have  prayed  for  the 
Queen's  death,  he  was  ready  to  see  in  it  a  Divine  Pro- 
vidence. During  the  Queen's  illness  he  met  Burnet, 
Bishop  of  Salisbury,  in  Smithfield,  and  learned  that 
the  end  was  near.  The  Bishop,  who  was  on  his  way 
to  the  Court,  promised  to  send  word  to  Bradbury  in 
the  event  of  the  Queen's  death.  If  he  should  happen 
to  be  in  the  pulpit  the  man  was  to  drop  a  handker- 
chief   in  his    view.     This   signal   was  given,  and  the 


44  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

minister  thrilled  his  audience  by  suddenly  rendering 
thanks  for  the  deliverance  of  the  country  from  evil 
counsels,  and  asking  the  Divine  blessing  on  "  His 
Majesty  King  George  and  the  House  of  Hanover." 
It  was  long  Bradbury's  boast  that  he  was  the  first 
to  proclaim  King  George. 

To  this  region  belongs  the  story  of  one  of  the  few 
London  tradesmen  who  have  left  autobiographies.  I 
wish  there  had  been  more  such,  for  in  these  books  one 
dives  deep  into  the  everyday  past  of  London,  and  into 
the  affairs  of  the  dead  Londoner  in  the  surviving 
street. 

"  I  opened  shop  on  Midsummer  Day,  1774,  in 
Featherstone  Street,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Luke,  and  I 
was  as  well  pleased  in  surveying  my  little  shop  with 
my  name  over  it,  as  was  Nebuchadnezzar  when  he 
cried,  ^  Is  not  this  great  Babylon  that  I  have  built  f '  " 
The  poor  West  Country  cobbler  who,  on  setting  up  in 
business  in  London,  thus  compared  himself,  became 
the  greatest  popular  bookseller  that  London  had 
known.  Nor  have  later  achievements  belittled  the 
bibliopolic  triumph  of  James  Lackington.  Sixteen 
years  later  this  bookish  cobbler  was  able  to  state  his 
profits  from  bookselling  at  ;£40oo  a  year,  and  this  was 
no  final  figure.  Lackington's  Repository  in  Finsbury 
Circus  was  long  tabulated  as  one  of  the  sights  of 
London,  and,  indeed,  it  became  a  kind  of  golden 
image  of  bookselling,  set  up  in  the  plain  of  Finsbury, 
whose  height  was  threescore  cubits.  To  drop  Nebu- 
chadnezzar, this  **  Temple  of  the  Muses,"  as  the  proud 
bookseller  called  it,  was  actually  a  fine  affair.  When  it 
was  completed  a  coach  and  four  was  driven  round  the 
floor  under  its  great  dome,  whose  supporting  walls 
were  to  be  lined  with  a  million  books. 

Lackington's  success  grew  out  of  his  native  love  of 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  45 

books.  His  initial  stock  was  his  small  and  tattered 
private  library,  brought  from  Taunton,  and  its  value, 
with  an  unstated  quantity  of  shoe-leather  thrown  in, 
was  about  £^,  But  the  cobbler  and  the  cobbler's  wife 
had  a  spirit  in  them  that  was  new  to  Featherstone 
Street,  and  was  bound,  like  new  wine,  to  burst  that 
narrow  bottle  of  a  street  off  the  City  Road. 

A  story  proves  this.  When  the  pair  were  scraping 
together  the  furniture  for  their  one  room  and  work- 
shop, Christmas  Eve  arrived,  and  with  it  the  noble 
idea  of  a  Christmas  dinner.  Mrs.  Lackington  sent  her 
husband  out  to  do  his  best  with  half  a  crown.  The 
sum  was  small,  yet  it  might  stretch  to  a  little  festival. 
On  the  way  he  spied  a  second-hand  bookshop,  and 
it  occurred  to  him  that  with  no  unsupportable  deduc- 
tion from  the  proposed  luxuries  he  might  possess  him- 
self of  one  more  cheap  book  for  his  library.  He 
accordingly  entered  the  shop,  thinking  to  lay  out  six- 
pence or  ninepence,  but  he  ended  by  putting  down 
his  whole  sum  for  a  copy  of  Young's  "  Night 
Thoughts."  And  it  was  with  the  "  Night  Thoughts," 
and  a  well-composed  harangue  on  the  superiority  of 
intellectual  over  sensual  pleasures,  that  the  young  man 
came  home.  **  I  think,"  he  said,  "  I  have  acted  wisely, 
for  had  I  bought  a  dinner  we  should  have  eaten  it  to- 
morrow, and  the  pleasure  would  have  been  soon  over ; 
but  should  we  live  fifty  years  longer  we  shall  have  the 
'  Night  Thoughts  '  to  feast  upon."  And,  wonderful  to 
relate,  the  cobbler's  wife  accepted  this  view  of  the 
matter,  helped,  perhaps,  by  her  dolorous  Methodism 
and  her  pathetic  pride  in  self-denial. 

A  man  who  could  make  his  Christmas  dinner  off 
Young's  *^  Night  Thoughts"  would  never  know  the 
night  of  poverty.  Six  months  later,  with  a  stock  now 
worth  ^£25,  Lackington  removed  to  a  shop  and  parlour 


46  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

at  46  Chiswell  Street,  where,  not  sticking  to  his  last,  he 
became  one  entire  and  perfect  bookseller.  He  became, 
too,  a  widower  and  a  man  of  the  world.  It  was  the 
reading  of  "  John  Buncle  "  that  expanded  him.  When 
he  laid  down  the  last  of  its  four  volumes,  "  my  soul 
had  took  its  freedom  up,"  he  declares,  quoting  a 
forgotten  poet.  Nor  was  he  perturbed  when  one  of 
"  Mr.  Wesley's  old  women,"  as  he  now  pleasantly 
called  his  former  pastors,  assured  him  in  polite 
company  that  "  the  devil  would  soon  toss  him  about 
in  hell  with  a  pitchfork."  Married  anew  to  a  lady  who 
loved  books  without  despising  cakes  and  ale,  he  was 
buying  stock  at  a  great  rate  and  becoming  intellectual 
(he  tells  us),  in  the  same  way  as  butchers  become  fat 
by  the  smell  of  meat.  Whereas  in  Featherstone  Street 
he  had  beckoned  across  the  way  for  a  pot  of  porter, 
he  could  now  provide  his  friends  with  port  and  sherry, 
and  thence  he  rose  to  a  country  box  and  a  carriage 
inscribed  with  the  motto — more  aristocratic  now  than 
then — **  Small  profits  do  great  things." 

The  time  was  ripe  for  the  man.  He  speaks  of  the 
increase  of  readers  in  the  last  twenty  years  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  "  All  ranks  and  degrees  now  read." 
The  poorer  sort  of  farmers,  and  country  people  in 
general,  had  given  up  telling  each  other  ghost  stories 
in  the  fire-light,  and  **  on  entering  their  houses  you 
may  see  ^Tom  Jones,'  *  Roderick  Random,'  and  other 
entertaining  books,  stuck  up  in  the  bacon  racks." 

To  fill  bacon  racks  with  books  may  be  said  to  have 
been  Lackington's  aim  in  business.  His  secret  was 
simple.  In  1780  he  determined,  against  the  whole 
custom  of  the  trade,  to  give  no  credit  whatever,  and  to 
sell  books  quickly  at  small  profits.  **  Remainder " 
sales  were  frequent,  and  he  was  surprised  to  discover 
that    it   was  usual    for    booksellers  who  bought  up 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  47 

remainders  to  destroy  half  or  three-fourths  of  such 
books,  and  to  charge  Httle  less  than  the  full  publication 
price  for  the  copies  they  kept.  He  broke  this  custom, 
and  sold  all  his  *^  remainder "  purchases  at  very  low 
prices,  in  accordance  with  his  principle  that  small 
profits  do  great  things.  The  trade  took  alarm,  and  the 
arch-underseller  was  vilified.  Yet  this  phase  passed, 
the  while  Lackington,  who  was  a  mighty  inscriber  of 
quotations  in  his  tablets,  consoled  himself  with  the 
sufficiently  venomous  remark  in  Carpenter's  "Joineri- 
ana"  that  "a  bookseller  is  in  general  a  bad  judge  of 
everything,  but  his  stupidity  shines  most  conspicuously 
in  that  particular  branch  of  knowledge  by  which  he 
gets  his  bread."  Booksellers  had  the  wit  to  perceive 
that  they,  like  the  public,  could  buy  profitably  from 
the  all-buying  Lackington,  who  began  to  issue  huge 
separate  catalogues  to  booksellers  and  ordinary  readers. 
He  provided  in  his  day  and  generation  a  big  and 
popular  form  of  bookselling,  analogous  to  the  hypnotic 
and  far-reaching  methods  now  employed  by  the 
drapery  trades.  His  reward  was  a  satisfied  old  age 
at  Merton,  where  he  wrote  his  interesting  but  rather 
scandalous  memoirs.  These  still  float  round  the 
London  bookstalls,  though  they  are  hardly  likely  to 
fulfil  his  prayer  that  they  might  live 


Till  they  in  flames  at  last  expire, 
And  help  to  set  the  world  on  fire. 


It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  original  houses  in  the  City 
Road  were  built  for  well-to-do  people  who  desired  to 
be  rural  within  twenty  minutes'  walk  of  the  Bank. 
For  a  time  they  succeeded.  There  are  records  of 
delicious  fruit  raised  here.  You  still  see  the  iron 
balconies  from  which  the  City  Road  children  looked 


48  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

down  on  currant-bushes  and  sweet-williams.  There 
is  a  fragrant  name,  Shepherdess  Walk,  now  borne  by 
a  street  of  deadly  straightness,  along  which  you  walk 
in  the  shadow  of  a  workhouse.  The  manners  of  this 
neighbourhood  may  be  deduced  from  the  permanent 
cautions  against  window-breaking  which  meet  the  eye. 
Here  within  living  memory  were  fields  and  tea-gardens. 
Now  all  is  brick  and  toil,  with  a  tendency  for  the 
factory  to  spurn  the  house  from  the  street. 

There  are,  perhaps,  still  a  few  Londoners  who 
remember  Shepherd  and  Shepherdess  Fields  when 
syllabubs  were  giving  place  to  mortar,  and  when  Dodd 
the  Dustman's  cinder-heaps  adorned  the  canal.  Once 
a  year  Dodd — the  Mr.  Boffin  of  '*  Our  Mutual  Friend  " 
— gave  a  beanfeast  to  his  minions  and  their  sweet- 
hearts, and  the  neighbouring  bricklayers  were  bidden 
to  the  revels,  on  which  Mr.  Rouse  of  the  Grecian 
shed  the  light  of  his  countenance. 

Thus  in  obscure  ways  has  London  enlarged  herself. 
In  a  forgotten  summer  evening  the  Dustmen  of  the 
old  streets  are  dancing  with  the  Bricklayers  of  the  new, 
and  in  the  background  the  City  Road  resigns  itself  to 
mixed  destinies.  Even  in  recent  years  one  has  seen 
the  City  Road  lose  a  certain  Whistlerian  charm  it  had. 
The  view  of  the  Regent's  Canal  from  the  bridge,  half- 
way along  the  road  to  Islington,  no  longer  invites. 
Various  rows  of  cottages  have  given  place  to  ware- 
houses, and  a  church  has  been  dismantled.  A 
circular  plot  of  grass,  railed  in  and  gateless,  has 
disappeared  near  Windsor  Terrace.  For  that  weird 
circle  Dickens  might  have  found  a  story,  and  Carlyle 
a  phrase.  Carlyle,  indeed,  should  have  described  this 
Appian  Way  of  toil,  this  road  of  wry  annals  and  vexed 
property,  of  dusty  graves  and  exploded  revels. 

Returning  to  Plackett's  Common,  a  road  which  here 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  49 

forms  an  acute  angle  with  the  City  Road  is  worth  a 
passing  gaze.  It  recalls  one  of  the  most  cheerful 
passages  in  all  literature.  This :  *'  That  punctual 
servant  of  all  work,  the  sun,  had  just  risen,  and  begun 
to  strike  a  light  on  the  morning  of  the  thirteenth  of 
May,  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  twenty-seven, 
when  Mr.  Samuel  Pickwick  burst  like  another  sun 
from  his  slumbers,  threw  open  his  chamber  window, 
and  looked  out  upon  the  world  beneath.  Goswell 
Street  was  at  his  feet — Goswell  Street  was  on  his  right 
hand — and  as  far  as  eye  could  reach,  Goswell  Street 
extended  on  his  left ;  and  the  opposite  side  of  Goswell 
Street  was  over  the  way." 

How  many  million  readers  have  been  lifted  by  this 
vision  of  a  Goswell  Street  they  have  never  looked  upon  ! 
This  London  glimpse  has  passed  into  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  whole  English  race.  The  name  has 
become  Goswell  Road.  Mr.  Pickwick's  Goswell  Street 
was  the  lower  portion  of  what  is  now  one  road,  rising 
from  the  Charterhouse  to  the  "Angel"  at  Islington.  Not 
long  ago,  more  by  accident  than  by  design,  I  walked 
again  in  Mr.  Pickwick's  tracks,  and  turned  to  look 
at  the  street  on  which  that  benevolent  brow  sheds 
unfading  lustre.  To  my  surprise  Goswell  Street  was 
filled  with  stones,  implements,  and  trestles,  and  was 
noisy  with  the  sound  of  hammers  on  iron.  Goswell 
Street  was  in  the  hands  of  the  London  County  Council, 
and  on  its  roadway  a  new  conduit  electric  tramline 
was  being  laid  in  the  sweat  of  many  brows.  The  very 
portions  of  Goswell  Street  in  which  I  was  inclined  to 
locate  Mr.  Pickwick's  lodgings  suffered  these  assaults, 
and  in  several  places  the  opposite  side  of  Goswell 
Street  was  no  longer  over  the  way.  Yet  the  old  road 
was  there,  basking  in  a  June  sun  and  refreshed  by  a 
summer  breeze.   Although  London  rebuilds  her  streets, 


50  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

she  seldom  interferes  with  their  contours.  To-day, 
much  as  in  Stow's  time,  Goswell  Street  "  stretcheth  up 
towards  Isledon." 

From  the  "  Angel,"  in  the  old  days,  one  strolled  often 
to  Claremont  Square  and  its  reservoir  to  look  down 
Pentonville  Hill  on  the  misty  vale  of  St.  Pancras. 
London  rests  her  elbow  in  Claremont  Square,  a  place 
of  large  windows,  fantail  doors,  conventional  glimpses 
of  india-rubber  plants  climbing  between  white  lace 
curtains,  and  eternal  afternoon.  The  name  "Clare- 
mont "  shared  by  the  neighbouring  chapel  appears  to 
have  no  historical  basis.  It  was  probably  suggested 
by  the  site,  and  by  that  amiable  weakness  which  makes 
our  suburban  roads  talk  (like  Fred  Bayham)  "  sumptu- 
ously "  in  terms  of  Chatsworth,  Hawarden,  and 
Dalmeny. 

To  Claremont  Square  and  to  Amwell  Street  (a  few 
doors  from  the  square)  went  George  Cruikshank, 
young  and  new  married.  In  Amwell  Street  he 
illustrated  the  "Sketches  by  Boz"  and  imagined  he 
wrote  "  Oliver  Twist."  There,  to  his  apprentices  and 
to  young  disciples  like  George  Augustus  Sala,  he  gave 
out  his  single  and  constant  maxim  of  art :  "  Take  care 
to  draw  the  pelvis  right,  for  what  are  you,  and  what 
can  you  do,  if  your  pelvis  is  wrong  ?  "  In  the  evening 
Cruikshank  was  to  be  seen  at  the  Sir  Hugh 
Myddleton  Tavern  hard  by,  where  he  sat  with  his 
fellow-members  of  the  "  Crib,"  a  club  of  choice  spirits 
founded  by  Joseph  Grimaldi.  Possibly  it  was  after 
such  a  night  that  George,  sitting  up  in  his  bed  in  a 
torture  of  cogitation,  saw  in  the  bedroom  looking- 
glass  the  reflection  of  his  own  face  and  his  fingers 
between  his  lips,  and  exclaimed,  "  That's  it  I "  He 
had  seen  Fagin  in  the  condemned  cell. 

Something  in  the  air  and  sky  of  this  region  might 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  51 

suggest,  if  one  did  now  know  of  them,  the  grass  slopes 
of  earlier  days,  and  the  extinguished  lights  and 
**  garlands  dead "  of  tea-garden  and  bowling-green. 
The  street  names  recall  Copenhagen  House,  White 
Conduit  House,  and  other  Cockney  resorts  which  dis- 
appeared at  the  beginning  of  the  last  century.  At  the 
corner  of  Penton  Street  is  the  Belvedere  Tavern,  and 
inside  it  a  large  painting  of  its  old  racket-court  with 
players  and  spectators  ;  and  here,  in  Winchester  Place, 
opposite  the  reservoir,  was  Dobney's  Bowling  Green 
at  Prospect  House,  on  the  site  of  the  present 
mantelpiece  factory. 

A  curious  story  hangs  to  the  name  of  Hermes  Street. 
Here  at  his  mansion,  Hermes  Hill,  died  Dr.  Francis 
de  Valangin,  M.D.  A  Swiss  by  birth,  he  had  come  to 
England  from  Leyden  and  practised  in  Soho  Square 
and  the  City.  About  the  year  1772  he  looked  round 
him  for  a  country  house,  and  pitched  upon  the  green 
heights  of  Pentonville.  Pink,  the  historian  of  Clerken- 
well,  says  that  the  house  he  built  was  more  fanciful 
than  convenient.  The  doctor  named  it  Hermes  Hill 
after  Hermes  Trismegistus,  the  Egyptian  priest  and 
philosopher,  who  wrote  some  forty  books  on  theology, 
medicine,  and  geography,  and  it  is  this  dim  figure  of 
the  age  of  Osiris  and  Isis  that  is  recalled  to-day  in 
the  murk  of  Pentonville.  It  was  at  Hermes  Hill 
Dr.  Valangin  discovered  his  ^*  Balsam  of  Life,"  which 
was  sold  long  after  at  the  Apothecaries'  Hall.  Here 
his  only  daughter  died  at  the  age  of  nine,  and  was 
buried  under  a  costly  gravestone  in  the  garden.  The 
doctor  lived  to  be  eighty. 

Hermes  Hill  obtained  notoriety  in  181 1  as  the  home 
of  the  coal-heaver  evangelist,  William  Huntington, 
who  added  the  letters  S.S.  to  his  name  to  signify 
'*  Sinner  Saved."     His  real  name  was  Hunt,  to  which 


52  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

he  had  added  two  syllables  in  order  to  obscure  the 
record  of  a  youthful  folly.  Huntington  had  come  to 
London  from  Thames  Ditton  in  *'  two  large  carts  with 
furniture  and  other  necessaries,  beside  a  post-chaise 
well  filled  with  children  and  cats."  The  coal-heaver 
made  his  way  in  London  rapidly.  He  wrote  many 
books,  and  was  provided  by  his  flock  with  a  chapel  in 
Gray's  Inn  Lane  at  a  cost  of  ;£9000,  a  gift  which  he 
graciously  accepted  on  condition  that  it  was  made  his 
own  freehold.  Here  he  held  forth  with  noise  and 
unction,  varying  his  discourse  by  such  interruptions  as 
"  Wake  that  snoring  sinner !  Silence  that  noisy 
numskull  1 "  After  occupying  Hermes  Hill  for  less 
than  two  years,  he  died  at  Tunbridge  Wells  in  1813, 
and  the  sale  of  his  effects  at  Pentonville  produced 
some  extraordinary  scenes.  Relic  prices  were  given 
for  trifles.  His  arm-chair  fetched  sixty  guineas,  and 
his  spectacles  seven  guineas.  One  man  bought  a 
barrel  of  ale  to  '*  remember  him  by."  Huntington 
himself  relied  for  remembrance  on  his  epitaph,  which 
he  dictated  thus  :  *'  Here  lies  the  Coal  Heaver,  who 
departed  this  life  July  i,  1813,  in  the  69th  year  of  his 
age,  beloved  of  his  God  and  abhorred  by  men.  The 
Omniscient  Judge,  at  the  Grand  Assize,  shall  ratify 
and  confirm  this  to  the  confusion  of  many  thousands  ; 
for  England  and  its  metropolis  shall  know  that  there 
hath  been  a  Prophet  among  them. — W.  H.,  S.S."  His 
portrait  is  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery.  It  is 
probable  that  he  did  much  good  in  his  uncouth  way. 

In  1826  it  was  written  in  Hone's  "  Every- Day 
Book,"  "  Building  or  what  may  more  properly  be 
termed  the  tumbling-up  of  tumble-down  houses,  to  the 
north  of  London,  is  so  rapidly  increasing,  that  in  a 
year  or  two  there  will  scarcely  be  a  green  spot  for  the 
resort  of  the  inhabitants."     Hereabouts  Carlyle  in  his 


THE   FIRST   PERCH  S3 

first  London  days  walked  with  Edward  Irving,  and 
saw  *'  what  was  or  had  once  been  fields,  and  was  again 
coarsely  green  in  general,  but  with  symptoms  of  past 
devastation  by  bricklayers,  who  have  now  doubtless 
covered  it  all  with  their  dirty  human  dog-hutches 
of  the  period." 

He  gave  this  odd  picture  of  a  walk  with  Irving  : — 
"  In  some  smoothish  spot  there  suddenly  disclosed 
itself  a  considerable  company  of  altogether  fine- 
looking  young  girls,  who  had  set  themselves  to  dance  ; 
all  in  airy  bonnets,  silks,  and  flounces,  merry,  alert, 
nimble  as  young  fawns,  tripping  it  to  their  own 
rhythm  on  the  light  fantastic  toe,  with  the  bright 
beams  of  the  setting  sun  gilding  them,  and  the  hum 
and  smoke  of  huge  London  shoved  aside  as  foil  or 
background.  Nothing  could  be  prettier.  At  sight  of 
us  they  suddenly  stopped,  all  looking  round  ;  and  one 
of  the  prettiest,  a  dainty  little  thing,  stepped  radiantly 
out  to  Irving.  '  Oh  !  oh  !  Mr.  Irving,'  and  blushing 
and  smiling  offered  her  pretty  lips  to  be  kissed,  which 
Irving  gallantly  stooped  down  to  accept  as  well  worth 
while.  Whereupon,  after  some  benediction  or  pastoral 
words  we  went  our  way.  Probably  I  rallied  him  on 
such  opulence  of  luck  provided  for  a  man,  to  which  he 
could  answer  properly  as  a  spiritual  shepherd,  not  a 
secular." 

Seventy  years  earlier  Canaletto,  at  this  spot,  or  near 
it,  saw  London  as  no  smoky  background  to  brick 
and  nettle.  Seated  on  the  roof  of  Prospect  House, 
or  at  one  of  the  windows,  he  proceeded  to  draw 
a  bird's-eye  view  of  London.  In  a  copy  before  me 
I  see  pastures  and  cows,  the  detached  New  River 
Head,  the  northern  green  outskirts,  St.  Paul's  dome 
and  fifty  spires,  and  beyond  all  the  Surrey  hills. 
To-day,  Claremont  Square  and  a  dun  sky. 


CHAPTER   III 
LORDS  AND  LANDLADIES 

Feudal  Waistcoats — The  Duke  and  his  View — Decimus  Burton  and 
Major  Cartwright— The  Making  of  Bloomsbury—Lady  Ellenborough's 
P'lowers  —  Zachary  Macaulay  —  Capper's  Farm  —  Water  -  cress  —  A 
Gloomy  Square — A  War  on  Tips — The  Pretender  in  London — Dying 
for  a  Greek  Accent — A  Question  of  Taste — Red  Lion  Mary — Lord 
Eldon's  Peaches— The  Field  of  the  Forty  Footsteps— Peter  Pindar's 
Cottage— A  Recipe  for  Old  Age— The  Railway  Termini— Agar  Town 
— Morrison's  Pills — King's  Cross  and  the  Moscow  Legend — Art  for  the 
Million — The  Cottage  that  Never  Was — St.  Pancras-le-Gasometer 

NOT  Islington,  but  Bloomsbury,  is  the  aviary 
in  which  the  young  Londoner  commonly  finds 
his  "  first  perch."  I  have  recalled  that  in  the  late 
Eighties  one  drove  through  Bloomsbury  with  apologetic 
stealth,  sighting  the  red  waistcoats  of  the  Bedford  gate- 
keepers, who  reduced  the  traffic  to  its  lowest  common 
denominator  of  gentility,  which  I  believe  was  a  four- 
wheeled  cab.  To-day,  when  bishops  stand  on  soap- 
boxes and  peeresses  sell  hats,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  feudal  waistcoats  can  endure.  Not  only  have 
the  waistcoats  and  bars  been  withdrawn,  but  the  pomp 
implicit  in  the  one  and  the  exclusiveness  enforced  by 
the  other  have  passed  out  of  these  fine  old  streets  and 
squares. 

Along  its  western  boundary  Bloomsbury  has  ad- 
mitted modern  "  mansions,"  and  these  already  tower 
like  a  wave  that  must  advance  by  its  own  weight.    As 

54 


LORDS  AND   LANDLADIES  55 

on  the  boundaries,  so  in  the  centre :  Russell  Square  has 
renewed  its  youth,  its  houses  have  put  on  terra-cotta 
like  a  garment,  the  windows  are  new  mullioned,  and 
the  doors  elegantly  gated.  Yet  compromise  goes  with 
restoration,  for  the  presence  of  two  huge  modern 
hotels,  one  of  them  named,  it  is  true,  after  the  Russell 
family  and  adorned  with  many  a  boast  of  heraldry, 
destroys  without  a  pang  the  symmetry  of  the  largest 
square  in  London. 

Yet  Bloomsbury  is  Bloomsbury  still — unique  and, 
on  the  whole,  admirable.  It  is  London's  door-mat, 
breaking  the  traveller's  fall  on  her  stones.  How 
lulling  and  congratulatory  was  the  roll  of  the  hansom 
through  these  linked  squares  when  Euston  or  St. 
Pancras  had  washed  its  hands  of  you  1  Did  I  not 
once  sing  in  the  groves  of  Guilford  Street — 

For  me,  for  me,  these  old  retreats 
Amid  the  world  of  London  streets  ! 
My  eye  is  pleased  with  all  it  meets 
In  Bloomsbury. 

I  know  how  prim  is  Bedford  Park, 
At  Highgate  oft  I've  heard  the  lark  ; 
Not  these  can  lure  me  from  an  ark 
In  Bloomsbury. 

I  know  how  green  is  Peckham  Rye, 
And  Syd'nham,  flashing  in  the  sky  ; 
But  did  I  dwell  there  I  should  sigh 
For  Bloomsbury. 

I  know  where  Maida  Vale  receives 
The  night  dews  on  her  summer  leaves  ; 
Not  less  my  settled  spirit  cleaves 
To  Bloomsbury. 

Some  love  the  Chelsea  river  gales. 
And  the  slow  barges'  ruddy  sails  ; 
And  these  I'll  woo  when  glamour  fails 
In  Bloomsbury. 


$6  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Enough  for  mc  in  yonder  square 
To  see  the  perky  sparrows  pair, 
Or  long  laburnum  gild  the  air 
In  Bloomsbury. 

Enough  for  me,  in  midnight  skies, 
To  see  the  moons  of  London  rise 
And  weave  their  silver  fantasies 
In  Bloomsbury. 

Oh,  mine  in  snows  and  summer  heats, 
These  good  old  Tory  brick-built  streets  ! 
My  eye  is  pleased  with  all  it  meets 
In  Bloomsbury. 

Only  a  duke  with  a  liking  for  port  wine  could  have 
planned  Bloomsbury.  He  stood  one  day  in  1756  at  a 
back  window  of  Bedford  House,  looking  northward 
over  the  Southampton  Fields,  his  wig  awry  with 
passion  as  he  watched  a  gang  of  workmen  nearly  a 
mile  away.  They  were  constructing  the  New  Road 
from  Paddington  to  the  City — now  the  Euston  Road. 
And  the  Duke  objected.  Horace  Walpole  tells  us  why. 
*'The  Duke  of  Bedford,  who  is  never  in  town  in  the 
summer,  objects  to  the  dust  it  will  make  behind  Bed- 
ford House,  and  to  some  buildings  proposed,  though 
if  he  were  in  town  he  is  too  short-sighted  to  see  the 
prospect." 

Bedford  House  had  been  an  unspoiled  paradise. 
"  I  have  a  perfect  recollection,"  says  a  writer  who 
knew  it,  *'  of  its  venerable  grandeur,  as  I  surveyed  it  in 
the  distance,  shaded  with  the  thick  foliage  of  magnifi- 
cent lime-trees.  The  fine  verdant  lawn  extended  a 
considerable  distance  between  these,  and  was  guarded 
by  a  deep  ravine  to  the  north  from  the  intrusive  foot- 
steps of  the  daring,  whilst  in  perfect  safety  were  grazing 
various  breeds  of  foreign  and  other  cattle."  The  house 
was  kept  and  managed  with  aristocratic  perfection,  and 


LORDS  AND   LANDLADIES  57 

we  hear  of  the  snow-white  livery  of  its  servants.  The 
Duke's  family  motto,  '^  What  will  be  will  be,"  should 
have  helped  him,  even  though  he  could  not  see  the 
Bloomsbury  landlady  peeping  over  the  hill-tops  of 
Highgate. 

In  the  very  dawn  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  con- 
struction of  the  ducal  Bloomsbury  began.  Within 
seven  years  the  new  district  had  made  such  progress 
that  a  Scotchman  walking  over  it  wrote  to  his  friend 
Constable,  the  Edinburgh  publisher  :  *^  Young  Faulder 
and  I  walked  over  all  the  Duke  of  Bedford's  new 
feuing- grounds — Russell  Square,  Tavistock  Place, 
Brunswick  Square,  etc.  The  extent  of  these,  and  the 
rapidity  of  the  buildings,  is  beyond  all  comprehension." 

Most  of  the  Bedford  squares  and  streets  were  built 
by  Decimus  Burton,  who  erected  in  them  no  fewer 
than  922  houses.  When  the  Bedford  titles  had  been 
exhausted,  Burton  gave  his  name  to  Burton  Crescent, 
where  now  stands  the  little-known  statue  of  that  fine 
old  liberty-loving  fanatic,  Major  John  Cartwright.  He 
is  to  be  seen  in  bronze  on  the  east  side  of  the  crescent, 
where  recently  I  found  him  sitting  literally  under  his 
own  fig-tree,  by  whose  branches  he  was  in  some 
danger  of  being  strangled. 

The  whole  story  of  Bloomsbury  and  the  districts 
north  of  it  can  be  read  in  three  maps  :  Rocque's  of 
1745,  Mogg's  of  1806,  and  Cruchley's  of  1845.  Let  us 
arrange  a  few  results. 

ROCQUE,  1745. 

In  this  map,  made  eleven  years  before  the  con- 
struction of  the  New  Road  from  Paddington  to  Battle's 
Bridge  (King's  Cross),  Bedford  House  is  seen  pre- 
senting its  back  windows  to  the  upward-rolling  fields, 


58  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

in  which  St.  Pancras  is  clustered  round  its  small  old 
church,  and  Highgate  shows  as  a  remote  hill-top 
village.  All  the  ground  on  which  Bloomsbury  now 
stands  is  included  under  the  name  Lamb's  Conduit 
Fields.  Only  Great  Russell  Street,  Southampton  Row, 
Bloomsbury  Square,  Queen's  Square  (named  after 
Queen  Anne),  and  Great  Ormond  Street  are  seen. 

The  Foundling  Hospital  stands  lonely  in  the  fields, 
in  which  there  are  many  ponds. 

The  Tottenham  Court  Road  is  a  country  lane  in 
which  Whitefield's  first  tabernacle  stands  on  the  brink 
of  a  lake,  not  named  on  the  map,  but  identical  with 
the  sheet  of  water  which  the  strolling  Londoners  of  the 
period  called  the  "  Little  Sea."  Near  the  chapel  stood 
a  few  cottages  called  Paradise  Row,  and  a  turnstile 
opening  into  Crab  Tree  Fields,  or  Crab  and  Walnut 
Fields,  extending  up  to  Tottenham  Court  and  its  Adam 
and  Eve  Tavern.  A  person  standing  on  the  future  site 
of  Tavistock  Square  in  1745  looked  east  over  unbroken 
fields  to  the  northern  edge  of  Clerkenwell,  and  west- 
ward to  old  Marylebone.  To  the  north-west  he  could 
see  the  roofs  of  Islington  crowning  a  green  hill. 

MOGG,  1806. 

Bedford  House  is  gone  and  Russell  Square  is  built. 
The  Tottenham  Court  Road  is  lined  on  both  sides  with 
its  present  offshoots,  but  Gower  Street  reaches  only  half- 
way to  the  New  Road.  Of  the  squares  and  streets 
between  Russell  Square  and  the  New  (Euston)  Road, 
only  Tavistock  Square  is  begun.  But  Guilford  Street, 
Bernard  Street,  Great  Coram  Street,  and  Tavistock 
Place  have  been  completed. 

The  New  Road  between  the  '*  Adam  and  Eve  "  and 
King's  Cross  is  still  rural,  though  Somers  Town  has 


LORDS  AND   LANDLADIES  59 

sprung  up.  Where  Endsleigh  Gardens  now  is,  a  large 
nursery-ground  is  seen,  and  opposite  the  site  of  the 
future  St.  Pancras  Station  is  a  bowling-green. 

The  sites  of  Hunter  Street,  Judd  Street,  and  all  their 
tributaries  are  open  pasture  as  far  as  Gray's  Inn  Lane. 

Camden  Town  is  a  small  place  thinly  enveloping  a 
portion  of  the  Hampstead  Road. 

Cruchley,  1845. 

The  modern  Bloomsbury  is  made  up,  and  the 
Euston  Road,  still  called  the  New  Road,  is  completely 
urban.  Regent's  Park  has  been  formed,  Camden  Town 
and  Kentish  Town  are  organic  continuations  of  London, 
and  the  London  and  Birmingham  Railway  is  running 
into  Euston  Square.  A  reservoir  occupies  the  site  of 
Tolmers  Square. 

As  Rocque's  map  has  shown  us,  the  lower  portions 
of  the  district  were  of  older  date  than  the  Bedford 
suburb  proper,  and  recent  rebuildings  have  afforded 
sudden  ghmpses  of  an  antique  and  picturesque  Blooms- 
bury  which  artists  have  been  quick  to  seize.  The 
north  side  of  the  Queen  Square,  with  railings  in  Guil- 
ford Street,  was  left  open  in  order  that  the  residents 
might  enjoy  the  view  to  Highgate.  Southampton 
Row  was  old  enough  to  have  been  the  home  of 
the  poets  Gray  and  Cowper.  In  Bloomsbury  Square 
lived  Lord  Ellenborough,  whose  wife,  the  daughter 
of  a  naval  officer  named  Towry,  was  so  beautiful 
that  passers-by  would  linger  to  watch  her  water  the 
flowers  on  her  balcony,  a  pretty  picture  saved  from 
the  time  when  the  gardens  in  Great  Russell  Street, 
and  about,  were  noted  for  the  perfume  of  their 
flowers. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  but  least-known  spots  in 


6o  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

this  lower  region  is  the  recreation-ground  formed  out 
of  the  old  burial-grounds  of  St.  George  the  Martyr  and 
St.  George's,  Bloomsbury.  It  lies  behind  the  Foundling 
Hospital  and  is  best  approached  from  the  Bloomsbury 
squares  by  Handel  Street,  or  from  the  Gray's  Inn  Road 
by  Wakefield  Street.  "  Here  lies  Nancy  Dawson." 
Her  gravestone,  which  is  said  to  have  borne  these 
words,  has  disappeared,  but  it  is  possible  that  it  is  only 
buried  out  of  sight.  Twenty  years  ago,  when  the 
recreation-ground  was  formed,  search  was  made  for 
interesting  gravestones,  and  that  of  Zachary  Macaulay, 
father  of  Lord  Macaulay,  is  now  erected  on  the  green- 
sward. That  the  grave  of  this  remarkable  man  should 
have  been  lost,  and  the  recovery  of  its  stone  be  a 
matter  of  chance,  are  surprising  facts,  yet  they  consort 
with  the  almost  painful  shrinking  from  reward  and 
recognition  that  marked  the  Abolitionist's  character 
and  saddened  some  of  his  friends.  It  was  said  of  him, 
without  exaggeration,  that  he  "  sacrificed  all  that  a  man 
may  lawfully  sacrifice — health,  fortune,  repose,  and 
celebrity."  Forty  years  ago  Sir  George  Otto  Trevelyan, 
in  his  Life  of  Lord  Macaulay,  wrote  in  the  spirit  of  his 
subject :  **  Even  now,  when  he  (Zachary  Macaulay)  has 
been  in  his  grave  more  than  the  third  of  a  century,  it 
seems  almost  an  act  of  disloyalty  to  record  the  public 
services  of  a  man  who  thought  he  had  done  less  than 
nothing  if  his  exertion  met  with  praise,  or  even  with 
recognition."  Yet  Trevelyan  believed — and  his  state- 
ment has  not  been  corrected  in  recent  editions — that 
Zachary  Macaulay  had  received  the  praise  and  recog- 
nition implied  in  burial  in  Westminster  Abbey.  It  is  a 
generous  slip  in  a  classic  biography.  There  is  a  further 
confusion  in  regard  to  the  epitaph.  For  the  inscription 
quoted  in  the  biography  as  the  inscription  in  the 
Abbey  is  not  there.      Written  by  Sir  James  Stephen,  it 


LORDS   AND   LANDLADIES  6i 

was  not  considered  suitable  for  the  Abbey  cenotaph, 
however  true.  Indeed,  its  concluding  words  could  not, 
perhaps,  have  been  properly  inscribed  where  so  many 
of  Zachary  Macaulay's  co-workers  are  honoured : 
"  Meekly  endured  the  Toil,  the  Privation,  the  Reproach, 
resigning  to  Others  the  Praise  and  the  Reward."  But 
merit,  like  murder,  will  out,  and  there  is  now  a  scheme 
to  erect  a  church  at  Clapham  to  the  memory  of 
Zachary  Macaulay. 

The  old  rural  Bloomsbury  lives  in  John  Thomas 
Smith's  account  of  a  farm  which  stood  behind  Great 
Russell  Street,  and  was  occupied  by  two  sisters  named 
Capper.  One  of  them  rode  her  fields  on  a  grey  mare, 
and  took  a  spiteful  pleasure  in  cutting  with  a  pair  of 
shears  the  strings  of  the  boys'  kites.  The  wooden 
pipes  of  the  New  River  Company  crossed  the  fields 
raised  on  trestles,  and  beneath  their  drippings  water- 
cress grew  plentifully. 

It  is  in  Red  Lion  Square  that  the  past  of  all  this 
region  seems  to  collect  its  shadows.  The  impression 
of  something  a  little  alien  and  sinister  is  felt  in  this 
oblong  precinct,  in  which  the  tall  old  houses,  now 
turned  to  commercial  uses,  look  down  on  the  chil- 
dren's playground.  The  garden  was  thrown  open 
in  1885,  and  for  some  years  there  was  a  dovecote 
in  the  centre,  but  it  has  disappeared.  This  dovecote 
stood  on  or  near  the  site  of  an  obelisk  that  was  sup- 
posed to  mark  the  spot  where  the  bodies  of  Cromwell, 
Ireton,  and  Bradshaw  were  secretly  burned  after  their 
mutilation  at  Tyburn.  The  story  has  no  support.  Yet 
when  the  square  was  built  it  seemed  at  once  to  take 
on  a  ghostly  air ;  an  eighteenth-century  writer  de- 
clared that  he  never  went  into  it  without  thinking 
of  his  latter  end.  "The  dreary  length  of  the  sides, 
with  the  four  watch-houses  like  so  many  family  vaults 


62  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

at  the  corners,  and  the  naked  obelisk  that  springs 
from  amidst  the  rank  grass,  hke  the  sad  monument 
of  a  disconsolate  widow  for  the  loss  of  her  first 
husband,  form  altogether  a  memento  moriy  more 
powerful  to  me  than  a  death's-head  and  cross 
marrow-bones." 

The  square  has  more  cheerful  associations.  Every 
one  knows  that  Jonas  Han  way,  the  hero  of  the 
umbrella,  lived  here.  A  less-remembered  resident 
is  Dr.  William  King,  whose  *^  Political  and  Literary 
Anecdotes "  is  one  of  those  books  that  are  para- 
doxically more  quoted  than  read.  It  was  King  who 
brought  to  Dr.  Johnson  his  Master  of  Arts  Diploma 
from  Oxford.  He  died  in  1763,  and  his  reminiscences, 
which  came  to  light  long  after  his  death,  are  full  of 
the  London  life  of  his  day.  He  shared  with  Hanway 
a  strong  objection  to  the  exaction  of  tips,  or  vails, 
by  servants  from  the  guests  at  great  houses.  It  was 
at  Newcastle  House,  no  farther  than  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  that  this  custom  was  temporarily  scotched 
by  Sir  Timothy  Waldo.  *^  Sir,  I  do  not  take  silver," 
said  the  cook.  ^^  Don't  you,  then  I  do  not  give  gold." 
Hanway  made  the  incident  the  text  of  his  philippic. 
Dr.  King  whimsically  suggested  that  a  notice  should 
be  placed,  in  large  gold  letters,  over  the  door  of 
every  man  of  rank,  as  follows  :  "  The  Fees  for  Dining 
Here  are  Three  Half  Crowns  (or  Ten  Shillings)  to 
be  Paid  to  the  Porter  on  Entering  the  House, 
Peers  or  Peeresses  to  Pay  What  More  They  Think 
Proper." 

Dr.  King  was  one  of  the  few  who  were  privy  to 
the  secret  visits  to  London  of  Prince  Charles,  the 
Pretender,  whom  he  met  in  1750  at  Lady  Primrose's 
house.  He  stayed  in  London  only  five  days.  King 
says  that  his  busts,  which  were  then  being  commonly 


LORDS   AND   LANDLADIES  63 

sold  in  London,  were  more  like  him  than  any  painted 
portrait  he  had  seen.  He  came  one  evening  to  King's 
lodgings  to  drink  tea,  and  it  would  appear  that  this 
was  during  the  doctor's  stay  in  Red  Lion  Square. 
'^  My  servant,  after  he  was  gone,  said  to  me,  ^  that 
he  thought  my  new  visitor  very  like  Prince  Charles.' 

*  Why,'  said  I,  ^  have  you  ever  seen  Prince  Charles  ? ' 

*  No,  sir,'  replied  the  fellow,  '  but  this  gentleman, 
whoever  he  may  be,  exactly  resembles  the  busts  which 
are  sold  in  Red  Lion  Street,  and  are  said  to  be  the 
busts  of  Prince  Charles.'  The  truth  is,  these  busts 
were  taken  in  plaster  of  Paris  from  his  face." 

Among  King's  London  stories  is  one  that  might 
have  appealed  to  Browning.  Two  gentlemen  differed 
about  the  accent  of  a  Greek  word  in  a  coffee-house 
in  Devereux  Court,  in  the  Strand,  and  carried  their 
dispute  to  the  length  of  stepping  out  into  the  court 
to  end  it  with  their  swords — which  they  did  effectually, 
for  one  of  them  was  run  through,  and  died  on  the 
spot. 

Like  Hanway,  the  doctor  was  something  of  a 
pioneer ;  his  book  is  one  of  the  earliest  examples 
of  "  reminiscence "  literature  in  our  modern  sense  ; 
an  exemplar,  too,  by  reason  of  its  union  of  brevity 
with  a  certain  quality  and  finish  of  anecdote.  King 
did  not  trawl  his  life  and  correspondence  for  stories, 
but  wrote  down  those  that  had  dwelt  in  his  mind 
as  significant.  To  his  account  of  the  Devereux  Court 
duel  he  appends  a  grotesque  example  of  that  tinder- 
like susceptibility  to  offence  which  often  led  to  tragic 
encounters.  Two  Englishmen  arranged  to  travel 
together  through  Europe  for  three  or  four  years. 
They  took  out  passports  and  letters  of  credit,  recom- 
mendations, etc.,  settled  all  their  affairs,  and  crossed 
the  Channel.     Within  a  week  they  were  sitting  down 


64  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

in  Brussels  to  a  supper  of  a  woodcock  and  a  partridge. 
A  question  arose  as  to  which  bird  they  should  cut 
first,  and  they  found  themselves  at  variance  on  this 
point  of  gastronomy.  The  argument  became  such 
a  heated  quarrel  that  they  renounced  their  travelling 
project,  and  parting  next  morning  returned  to  Eng- 
land, one  by  Calais  and  the  other  through  Holland. 
Six  months  later.  King  encountered  one  of  these 
gentlemen,  who  was  his  friend,  and  asked  him  if  it 
was  true  they  had  set  out  to  do  the  Grand  Tour  and 
had  quarrelled  in  the  first  week  over  a  woodcock  and 
a  partridge.  ''Very  true,"  was  the  vehement  answer, 
''and  did  you  ever  know  such  an  absurd  fellow  as 

E ,  who  insisted  on  cutting  up  a  woodcock  before 

a  partridge." 

King  tells  us  that  he  asked  many  of  his  contem- 
poraries whether  they  would  care  to  live  their  lives 
over  again,  and  "never  heard  one  man  of  sense  answer 
in  the  affirmative."  The  gloom  of  Red  Lion  Square 
may  have  attuned  his  mind  to  such  inquiries.  On 
the  other  hand  it  may  have  deepened  his  love  of 
the  four  best  things  he  recognized  in  life  :  "  Old  wine 
to  drink,  old  wood  to  burn,  old  books  to  read,  and 
old  friends  to  converse   with." 

But  the  little  square  has  its  modern  associations. 
At  No.  17,  in  a  house  whose  successor  bears  a  tablet 
of  commemoration,  lived  and  wrought  William  Morris, 
Edward  Burne-Jones,  and  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 
Here  the  Morris  movement  in  decoration  was  born. 
And  here  flourished  Red  Lion  Mary.  It  is  fitting 
that  a  servant  girl's  name  should  be  linked  to  a 
Bloomsbury  square,  and  Red  Lion  Mary  seems  to 
have  deserved  her  destiny.  She  was  a  plain  person, 
of  much  character  and  unfailing  good  humour — im- 
perturbable, in  fact.     Rossetti   one  day  bounded  into 


LORDS  AND   LANDLADIES  65 

the  room,  strode  up  to  her,  and  in  tragic  tones  and 
with  fearful  meaning  in  his  voice,  exclaimed  : — 

Shall  the  hide  of  a  fierce  lion 
Be  stretched  on  a  couch  of  wood, 

For  a  daughter's  foot  to  lie  on, 
Stained  with  a  father's  blood  ? 

The  girl,  quite  unawed  by  the  horrible  proposition, 
replied  with  complacency,  "  It  shall  if  you  like,  sir." 
Rossetti  described  the  rooms  as  ^'  intensely  mediaeval  " 
with  tables  and  chairs  ^'  like  incubi  and  succubi." 

For  a  picture  he  was  then  designing  Burne-Jones 
might  have  been  seen — wonderful  as  it  seems — paint- 
ing lilies  from  specimens  that  grew  in  the  garden  of 
the  square.  This  was  a  happy  year  :  "  Blue  summer," 
he  wrote,  ^'  from  Christmas  to  Christmas,  and  London 
streets  glittered,  and  it  was  always  morning,  and  the 
air  sweet  and  full  of  bells." 

Residence  in  Bloomsbury  was  long  valued  for  its 
happy  mingling  of  town  convenience  with  country 
pleasures.  Mrs.  Siddons  bought  a  house  in  Gower 
Street,  of  which  she  wrote,  '*  The  back  of  it  is  most 
effectually  in  the  country."  Lord  Eldon  was  proud 
of  the  grapes  which  he  obtained  from  his  vine  at 
No.  42,  though  later  he  would  speak  in  open  court 
of  the  injury  done  to  them  by  the  increasing  smoke 
of  London.  It  is  recorded  that  as  late  as  1800,  at 
No.  6  Gower  Street,  the  tenant  had  twenty-five  dozen 
of  fine  nectarines  and  abundance  of  celery.  And 
Gower  Street  still  yields  fruit  in  its  season.  In  1906, 
in  Gower  Place,  close  to  the  Underground  Station, 
a  vine  growing  on  a  begrimed  house  bore  four  or 
five  bunches  of  purple  grapes.  This  vine,  which  is 
piously  believed  to  have  been  taken  from  a  Hampton 
Court  parent,  is  about  thirty  years  old.     In  1905  it 


66  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

bore  twenty-two  bunches  of  grapes,  and  in  1904  more 
than  forty.  Long  after  Gower  Street  ceased  to  reward 
the  husbandman's  labour  it  remained  a  very  quiet 
street,  and,  as  such,  agreeable  to  Charles  Darwin, 
who  remarked  that  "  if  one  is  quiet  in  London,  there 
is  nothing  like  its  quietness — there  is  a  grandeur 
about  its  smoky  fogs,  and  the  dull,  distant  sounds 
of  cabs  and  coaches." 

Near  Torrington  Square  and  the  ground  covered 
by  the  new  extension  of  the  British  Museum  was 
the  legendary  '*  Field  of  the  Forty  Footsteps."  The 
story  goes  that  at  about  the  time  of  the  Monmouth 
Rebellion  two  brothers  fought  to  the  death  in  the 
fields  on  which  Bloomsbury  now  stands,  for  the  hand 
of  a  lady,  who  sat  on  a  bank  and  watched  them  spill 
each  other's  blood,  until  both  fell  to  rise  no  more. 
Tradition  said  that  the  place  where  this  engaging 
young  woman  sat,  and  the  footprints  made  by  the 
two  swordsmen,  never  produced  grass  again.  It 
was  a  fine  story  for  Cockney  lovers  to  gloat  upon 
when  they  walked  abroad  on  Sunday  mornings  in 
the  fields  north  of  London.  They  trod  piously  in 
the  Footsteps,  enjoying  something  akin  to  Flaubert's 
*' historic  shudder."  Nor  were  Cockney  lovers  the 
only  folk  hypnotized  by  these  strange  marks  in  the 
grass.  The  poet  Southey  searched  for  them  dili- 
gently. He  found  them  adjoining  a  pond  "about 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  north  of  Montagu  House, 
and  500  yards  east  of  Tottenham  Court  Road."  He 
not  only  saw  the  Footsteps,  seventy-six  in  number, 
but  he  gravely  concurred  in  the  opinion  that  "the 
Almighty  has  ordered  them  as  a  standing  monument 
of  his  great  displeasure  of  the  horrid  sin  of  duelling." 
Where,  exactly,  were  these  Footsteps,  visited  and 
brooded  on  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  eighteenth- 


LORDS   AND   LANDLADIES  67 

century  Londoners  ?  Writing  more  than  fifty  years 
ago  in  ^^  Notes  and  Queries,"  Dr.  Rimbault  stated 
that  common  repute  located  them  at  the  extreme 
end  of  Upper  Montagu  Street,  and  at  its  north-east 
corner.  In  other  words,  they  were  at  the  south  end 
of  Woburn  Square.  A  man  who  might  have  fixed 
the  locaHty  to  a  nicety  was  old  Joseph  Moser,  whose 
"  Vestiges "  dragged  their  slow  length  through  the 
*'  European  Magazine."  He  saw  the  last  of  the 
Footsteps  on  16  June,  1800,  and  noted  in  his  diary, 
"the  building  materials  are  there  to  cover  them 
from  the  sight  of  men." 

University  College  and  the  Hospital  stand  on  ground 
formerly  known  as  Hope  Field,  in  the  occupation  of  a 
Mr.  Mortimer.  The  field  covered  twelve  acres,  and  in 
it  was  a  pound ;  also  a  rope-walk,  and  a  row  of  cottages 
known  as  Mortimer's  Folly.  Mortimer  Market,  that 
odd  little  purlieu  of  the  Tottenham  Court  Road,  took 
its  name  from  the  owner  of  the  field. 

It  was  to  enjoy  this  open  country  about  the  New 
Road,  and  the  smell  of  garden  and  nursery  flowers, 
that  Dr.  Wolcot  (Peter  Pindar)  took  Montgomery 
Cottage  in  which  to  spend  his  last  days  in  peace. 
He  had  done  tormenting  poor  George  the  Third  in 
verse  and  prose,  and  he  looked  back  on  his  exploits 
with  pride  rather  than  penitence.  When  an  old  lady 
gently  asked  him  whether  he  did  not  think  that  he  had 
been  a  bad  subject  of  King  George,  he  replied,  "  I  do 
not  know  anything  about  that,  madam  ;  but  I  do  know 
that  the  King  has  been  a  devilish  good  subject  for  me." 
Wolcot  had  now  done  belabouring  the  Royal  Academy 
in  his  famous  "Odes,"  but  he  liked  to  see  young 
artists  with  whom  he  sympathized,  and  above  his 
chimney-piece  hung  a  relic  of  the  man  whose  claims 
he  had  championed  with  insight  and  courage,  a  glow- 


68  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

ing  landscape  by  Richard  Wilson.  He  now  grew  old, 
and  looked  back  on  a  life  in  which  contention  and 
dissipation  had  played  dominant  parts.  His  hand  had 
been  against  every  man,  and  every  man's  hand  had 
been  lifted  in  reprisal.  He  now  brought  his  blindness 
and  other  infirmities  to  the  Euston  Road,  before  that 
street  name  was  known,  because  he  **  loved  the  smell 
of  flowers,  and  the  fresh  air  of  the  place."  In  Mont- 
gomery Cottage  he  often  spoke  to  Cyrus  Redding  of 
the  consolations  of  age.  "You  have  seen  something 
of  life  in  your  time.  See  and  learn  all  you  can  more. 
You  will  fall  back  upon  it  when  you  grow  old — an  old 
fool  is  an  inexcusable  fool  to  himself  and  others — store 
up  all  ;  our  acquirements  are  most  useful  when  we 
become  old."  His  recipe  for  length  of  days  was 
simple  ;  "  Take  care  of  your  stomach,  one  dish  will 
do  for  any  man  ;  take  plain  food ;  keep  yourself 
from  damp.  I  keep  a  fire  every  day  throughout  the 
year.  I  must  have  dry  air.  I  wear  a  flannel  shirt 
— it  is  needful,  and  I  take  a  little  brandy  or  rum. 
Fire,  flannel,  and  brandy  are  required  in  our 
climate." 

The  name  Euston  Grove,  borne  by  houses  almost 
within  the  station  precincts,  recalls  Peter  Pindar's  fields 
and  flowers.  Here  lived,  at  one  time,  Edward  Irving. 
Close  by,  in  Euston  Square,  at  No.  ii,  Charles  Aders 
entertained  Lamb,  and  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge, 
and  Flaxman.  The  walls  of  the  parlour  were  hung 
with  religious  pictures,  chiefly  of  the  German  school, 
on  which  Lamb  looked  with  quiet  appreciation  :  hence 
his  lines  : — 

Whoever  enters  here  no  more  presume, 
To  name  a  parlour  or  a  drawing-room  ; 
But  bending  lowly  to  each  holy  story, 
Make  this  thy  Chapel  and  thy  Oratory. 


LORDS   AND   LANDLADIES  69 

Parlour  or  oratory,  its  walls  heard  William  Blake 
explain  his  pictures  as  dictations  of  the  Eternal  Spirit. 
Crabb  Robinson  said,  ^'You  express  yourself  as  So- 
crates used  to  do.  What  resemblance  do  you  suppose 
there  is  between  your  spirit  and  his  ?  "  He  answered, 
"  I  was  Socrates— a  sort  of  brother.  I  must  have  had 
conversations  with  him.  So  I  had  with  Jesus  Christ. 
I  have  an  obscure  recollection  of  having  been  with 
both  of  them." 

The  early  Bloomsbury  was  connected  with  the  New 
Road  by  a  private  lane  belonging  to  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  (now  Woburn  Place),  and  more  or  less  directly 
by  field-paths.  To-day,  Bloomsbury  is  a  caravanserai 
at  the  thresholds  of  three  great  railway  termini.  In 
1837,  the  portico  of  Euston  Station,  the  most  massive 
thing  of  its  kind  in  these  islands,  was  being  built  of 
Bramley  Fall  stone  at  a  cost  of  ;^30,ooo.  Single  blocks 
of  the  stone  composing  it  weighed  as  much  as  thirteen 
tons.  The  least  necessary  building  in  London  may 
survive  all  others.  On  20  July,  1837,  ^^^  London  and 
Birmingham  Railway  was  opened  as  far  as  Boxmoor. 
It  was  primitive  railway  travel.  The  third-class  passen- 
gers stood  in  open  carriages  and  were  covered  with 
dust  and  cinders  from  the  engines,  indeed  the  guard, 
riding  on  the  top  of  the  carriage,  had  difficulty  to  prevent 
his  clothes  catching  fire.  The  track  was  laid  on  stone 
blocks  instead  of  sleepers,  and  the  clatter  of  the  train 
was  deafening.     The  bugle  sounded  in  the  stations. 

It  had  been  difficult  to  obtain  Parliamentary  sanction 
for  the  construction  of  a  terminus  so  far  within  London 
as  Euston  Grove,  and  for  about  ten  years  no  locomotive 
was  allowed  to  approach  nearer  than  Chalk  Farm. 
Thence  to  Euston  the  trains  ran  down  an  inclined 
plane  under  the  control  of  brakesmen,  and  in  the  out- 
ward journey  they  were  hauled  to  Chalk  Farm  on  an 


70  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

endless  rope.  "A  ship  going  into  harbour,"  says  an 
observer  of  the  period,  "is  not  treated  with  more 
caution  than  a  train  meets  with  on  being  led  into  the 
metropolis;  like  that,  too,  it  must  have  its  special 
pilots,  the  bank-riders,  as  they  are  called,  a  small  body 
of  men  who  do  nothing  but  this  ;  from  Euston  Square 
to  Camden  Town,  and  from  Camden  Town  to  Euston 
Square  is  the  extent  of  their  travels ;  and  very  absolute 
their  dominions  are." 

Such  was  Euston  in  its  infancy.  Yet  the  future  of 
the  station  was  foreseen.  Planned  on  a  gigantic  scale, 
it  has  not  been  spoiled  by  piecemeal  additions.  The 
great  waiting-hall  at  Euston  is  the  temple  of  British 
railway  enterprise.  But  it  is  a  severe  temple.  When 
G.  F.  Watts,  noting  its  splendid  wall  expanses,  wished 
to  decorate  these  with  frescoes  at  his  own  cost,  the 
directors  declined  his  offer  on  the  ground  that  it  was 
not  their  function  to  provide  art  for  travellers.  The 
hall  is  now  therefore  adorned  by  its  own  propor- 
tions, and  by  Baily's  overwhelming  statue  of  George 
Stephenson. 

The  note  of  St.  Pancras  Station  differs  from  that  of 
Euston  :  a  later  stage  of  railway  history  is  reflected. 
This  terminus  was  completed  only  in  1871,  by  which 
time  railway  travelling  had  developed  the  need  of  the 
railway  hotel.  St.  Pancras  gave  to  that  idea  its  first 
colossal  embodiment.  Its  vast  Gothic  ho^el  masks  the 
station,  and  lends  the  terminus  a  certain  withdrawn 
and  middle-class  sanctity.  You  enter  the  station  on 
precise  behaviour,  and  may  even  feel  a  half-doubt 
whether  you  are  fully  welcome  to  use  it  without  know- 
ing a  Director,  or  at  least  a  guard  who  remembers  your 
uncle  William.  Yet  no  railway  is  more  hospitable  or 
does  more  for  your  comfort.  It  is  not  by  accident  that 
on  the  main  platform  at  St.  Pancras  there  is  a  barber's 


LORDS   AND   LANDLADIES  7' 

shop,  and  an  office  for  the  sale  of  theatre  tickets. 
Unlike  Euston,  the  station  is  a  visible  whole.  Its 
immense  roof  is  built  of  girders  240  feet  in  span, 
incredibly  supported  by  the  distant  walls  from  which 
they  spring.  To  descend  from  St.  Pancras  Station 
into  the  Euston  Road  is  like  coming  out  of  church 
into  a  shabby  weekday  world. 

King's  Cross  Great  Northern  Station  the  man  in  the 
street  admires  less  than  the  architect.  It  has  the  neat 
merit  of  appearing  to  be  exactly  what  it  is.  Unlike 
Euston  and  St.  Pancras,  this  station  wades  in  the 
London  traffic.  The  engine  which  has  just  pulled  in 
the  Edinburgh  express  is  cooling  off  a  dozen  yards 
from  the  bus  that  climbs  to  Pentonville.  King's  Cross 
Station  is  a  terminus  reduced  to  simple  terms  :  plat- 
forms and  a  roof.  No.  i  platform  at  King's  Cross  is, 
perhaps,  the  best  departure  platform  in  London,  the 
neatest,  straightest,  most  amenable  and  correct.  It  is 
rash  to  say  so,  because  these  are  the  questions  which 
divide  families. 

Both  St.  Pancras  and  King's  Cross  have  curious 
hinterlands.  Somers  Town  is  a  kind  of  Bloomsbury, 
with  gasometers  to  represent  the  British  Museum.  On 
its  site  Caesar  is  said  to  have  encamped,  but  his  com- 
mentary is  lacking.  The  rise  of  the  district  was  due  to 
an  influx  of  refugees  from  the  French  Revolution.  The 
immediate  site  of  St.  Pancras  Station  was  styled  Agar 
Town,  after  its  owner.  Councillor  Agar,  but  Dickens 
called  it  a  ^'  suburban  Connemara."  He,  or  one  of  his 
^'  Household  Words  "  contributors,  relates  that  a  lady 
occupying  one  of  the  *^  built  o'  Sunday  mornin's  "  tene- 
ments, on  being  asked  whether  there  was  any  sewer 
connected  therewith,  replied,  "  Oh  no  !  Lord  bless 
you,  we've  none  o'  them  nasty  things  hereabouts  ! " 

As  the  west  end  of  the  Euston  Road  runs  to  tomb- 


72  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

stones,  so  its  King's  Cross  end  caters  for  illness  and 
funerals.  For  many  years  a  glazed  obelisk  has  informed 
the  passers-by  what  it  costs  to  be  buried  in  nine  degrees 
of  pomp.  Moreover,  the  arrived  countryman  is  awed 
by  a  large  square  building  adorned  by  a  sculptured 
lion  on  its  roof,  and  by  another  lion  majestically 
couchant  in  its  garden.  This  is  the  *'  British  College 
of  Health."  Erected  in  1828  by  Mr.  James  Morrison, 
it  is  the  home  of  Morrison's  Pills,  a  remedy  of  such 
favour  in  its  day  that  it  was  frequently  mentioned  in 
**  Punch,"  and  was  a  property  of  the  political  car- 
toonist. In  a  "Figaro"  cartoon  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton was  pictured  in  the  act  of  taking  the  Reform  Bill 
in  the  shape  of  a  Morrison  pill,  while  being  held  down 
by  Earl  Grey  and  Lord  John  Russell.  The  founder  of 
the  institution  and  the  pill  was  an  Aberdonian,  who 
became  a  merchant  at  Riga  and  in  the  West  Indies. 
Scourged  by  ill-health  he  sought  his  own  remedies,  and 
then  dealt  in  them  with  great  profit.  The  "  Hygiest " 
died  in  Paris  in  1840,  at  the  age  of  seventy.  In  the 
last  ten  years  of  his  life  he  had  paid  ;£6o,ooo  to  the 
British  Government  for  medicine  stamps,  and  his  pills 
had  an  immense  sale  in  France.  He  wrote  various 
pamphlets;  one  bore  the  title,  "Some  Important  Advice 
to  the  World,  or  the  Way  to  Prevent  and  Cure  the 
Diseases  incident  to  the  Human  Frame — by  James 
Morrison,  Gent.     (Not  a  Doctor.)" 

To  King's  Cross  belongs  the  flattering  legend  that 
Moscow  was  rebuilt,  after  the  holocaust  of  181 2,  on 
London  rubbish.  An  immense  cinder-heap  stood  on 
ground  now  covered  by  the  shops  at  the  head  of 
the  Gray's  Inn  Road.  It  consisted  of  horse-bones, 
cinders,  and  mud ;  and,  according  to  Walford,  it 
was  "  the  haunt  of  innumerable  pigs."  Dead  grain 
and  hop-husks  were  also  shot  here,  and  on  Sunday 


LORDS  AND   LANDLADIES  73 

mornings  there  was  much  Cockney  horse-play.  The 
statement  that  in  1826  these  rubbish-heaps  were  sold 
to  Russia  "to  help  to  rebuild  Moscow"  (Walford),  or 
"for  making  bricks  to  rebuild  Moscow"  (Hone),  would 
bear  a  little  more  proof  than  it  has  received.  One 
would  suppose  that  after  its  baptism  of  fire  Moscow 
was  not  short  of  debris.  Hone's  contemporary  state- 
ment is  as  scanty  as  all  the  later  ones,  of  which  it 
seems  to  be  the  father. 

The  King's  Cross — for  there  was  a  Cross — dated 
only  from  1820.  In  that  year  Mr.  William  Forrester 
Bray  cast  a  speculative  eye  on  the  Battle  Bridge  region, 
and  with  the  assistance  of  other  capitalists  built  more 
than  sixty  houses  at  an  outlay  of  ;^40,ooo.  But  the 
name  of  Battle  Bridge,  glorious  enough  in  its  origin, 
had  become  associated  with  all  manner  of  rascality,  and 
the  houses  were  in  consequence  difficult  to  let.  Mr. 
Bray  and  his  partners  consulted  about  a  change  of 
name.  "  St.  George's  Cross  "  was  suggested,  and  also 
"  Boadicea's  Cross,"  but  Mr.  Bray,  the  largest  builder, 
preferred  that  the  locality  should  be  known  as 
"  King's  Cross  "  in  honour  of  George  IV.  This  was 
agreed  to.  The  structure — described  as  a  ridiculous 
octagonal  affair,  sixty  feet  high,  with  a  statue  of 
George  IV  above  and  a  police-station  below — was 
taken  down,  unhonoured,  though  not  unsung,  in  1845. 
Its  site  is  the  ventilator  of  the  subway  nearest  Gray's 
Inn  Road. 

In  such  surroundings  one  looks  about  for  something 
that  will  strike  even  a  moderate  bliss  upon  the  day. 
For  many  years  a  cheap  art  shop  has  provided  a  hint 
of  happier  things  in  this  miscellaneous  turmoil.  Its 
window  has  always  been  filled  with  original  oil  and 
water-colour  pictures,  mostly  landscapes,  of  which  the 
prices  range  from  five  shillings  to  two  guineas.     No 


74  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

"  schools "  or  "  experiments "  ever  influence  the 
statement  of  English  landscape  of  which  they  make 
affidavit.  From  this  shop-window,  and  many  others 
of  which  it  is  a  type,  I  have  learned  that  the  pictorial 
object  which  is  most  dear  to  the  London  masses, 
transfiguring  the  prose  of  the  streets,  is  an  original  oil- 
picture  of  an  English  cottage.  But  to  be  worth  twelve- 
and-sixpence,  a  price  it  often  bears,  the  cottage  must 
answer  to  the  sentiment  of  forgotten  songs  and  faded 
almanacs,  to  the  wood-cuts  in  early  Victorian  prize- 
books,  and  to  a  personal  and  inherited  prepossession 
that  defies  analysis.  The  cottage  of  Barnsbury's 
dream  and  Pentonville's  long  desire  is  described  in 
one  of  Joanna  Baillie's  poems — 

E'en  now,  methinks, 
Each  little  cottage  of  my  native  vale 
Swells  out  its  earthen  sides,  upheaves  its  roof, 
Like  to  a  hillock  moved  by  labouring  mole, 
And  with  green  trail-weeds  clambering  up  its  walls. 

Whenever  I  contemplate  this  accepted  art  I  recall  a 
South  London  room  in  which  three  of  us  on  a  Sunday 
morning  would  look  out  on  the  cheerful  street  through 
dangling  autumn  leaves  twenty-five  years  ago.  We 
were  of  progressive  ages  and  different  walks  in  life. 
Blakely  was  a  retired  clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
England,  a  lonely  man  of  dry  utterance,  whom  I  rarely 
saw  during  the  week  save  in  the  stress  of  putting  on 
or  taking  off  his  overcoat.  He  would  sit  in  that 
rather  ill-ventilated  dining-room  until  a  walk  to 
Camberwell  Green  presented  itself  to  him  as  a  novel 
and  seductive  enterprise,  and  then  he  walked  until  the 
hearth  resumed  its  lure.  He  had  anecdote,  and  I 
became  impressed  by  the  great  number  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  whom  he  had  buried  in  wet  weather.     We 


IN    RED    LION    SQUARP: 

AT   NO.   17   LIVED   AND   WORKED   WILLIAM    MORRIS,    EDWARD    BURNE-JONES,    AND 
DANTE   GABRIEL   ROSSETTI,    AND    HERE    FLOURISHED   RED   LION    MARY     (p.  64) 


LORDS   AND   LANDLADIES  75 

liked  him  well :  I,  not  least,  for  his  profuse  and 
beneficial  practice  of  taking  in  the  ^^  Spectator."  For,  on 
Sunday  mornings  Blakely's  ''  Spectator  "  brought  my 
friend  Skald  over  from  Peckham  to  join  me  in  envious 
dissection  of  the  contemplative  poems  which  that 
journal  accepted,  in  preference  to  our  own  scare-songs 
of  revolt.  It  was  thus  that  we  two  encountered  Pincot, 
most  radiant  and  bald-headed  of  artists. 

Pincot  was  a  producer  of  those  rheumatic  cottages 
with  very  obese  chimneys  and  very  thin  columns  of 
blue  smoke,  and  those  rural  churches  like  hummocks 
of  mould,  which  are  the  staple  subject-matter  of  the 
people's  oils.  He  worked  with  stupendous  yet  light- 
hearted  industry  in  his  room  at  the  top  of  the  house, 
where,  as  we  came  to  understand,  he  had  several  books 
which  he  read  and  one  photograph  which  he 
cherished. 

Pincot  was  prepared  to  extend  a  rushy  pond  to  the 
crack  of  doom,  or  at  least  to  any  probable  wall-space 
over  the  piano,  and  his  ancient  rooks  circling  over 
the  ivied  church  and  away  into  amber  empyreans  of 
Sabbath,  always  seemed  to  announce  a  parson  who 
had  never  seen  a  Dissenter.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
would  attentuate  an  upright  picture  with  an  eye 
equally  faithful  to  parlour  proportions.  This  would 
represent  poplars  rising  out  of  rushes  with  perpen- 
dicular reflections  in  the  water  broken  by  a  punt,  while 
in  the  mauve  mist  of  an  exiguous  sky  appeared  a 
cottage  gable  not  seen  before  by  gods  or  wondering 
men. 

"  But  why,"  Skald  at  last  inquired,  "  do  you  always 
paint  the  same  picture  ?  " 

"  Why  does  God  raise  the  same  resplendent  sun 
above  the  same  hill-tops  every  morning,  Mr.  Skald  ? 
Same  picture  !     Ah,  my  young  friends,  if  you  knew 


76  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

the  delight  of  putting  ducks  into  different  positions  on 
a  pond  I  There  are  thousands  of  ways  of  doing  it — I 
say  there  are  thousands — and  to  me  every  single  one  of 
them  is  a  little  intimate  dream." 

*'  Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Pincot,  it  is  the  ducks  I  am  thinking 
about — you  give  them  the  time  of  their  lives — but 
these  cottages  of  yours  are  always  knee-deep  in  water. 
They  drip.  Their  thatches  ferment.  Dem'd  damp, 
moist,  and  unpleasant,  you  know.  I'm  only  quoting 
Dickens,  Mr.  Pincot." 

"  Dickens  !  I  have  read  every  single  word  of  Saint 
Boz,  and  it  is  the  dream  of  my  life  to  keep  an  Old 
Curiosity  Shop.  Then  I  would  sit  in  the  back  parlour 
and  create.  As  it  is,  I  am  connected  with  a  very  nice 
firm — we  are  like  brothers — and  I  paint  like  this  to 
oblige  them.  I  would  not  disoblige  them,  Mr.  Skald, 
for  ten  thousand  pounds.'  But  I  have  created.  I 
should  like  you  to  have  seen  my  picture,  'The  Cattle 
upon  a  Thousand  Hills,'  but  it  fell  short  of  my  dream 
and  it  was  too  big  to  keep.  I  have  been  a  dreamer, 
and  that's  the  reason— that's  the  reason  of  it  all." 

**  I  didn't  mean  to  be — critical,  Mr.  Pincot." 

"  No,  no,  and  I  don't  mind  you  saying  my  cottages 
are  rheumatic,  Mr.  Skald.  Mr.  Blakely  says  he  would 
not  dare  to  preach  in  my  church — St.  Mildew's,  he 
calls  it— but  I  do  not  mind  that  either.  No,  because  I 
no  longer  paint  my  dreams,  but  I  paint  to  make  the 
people  dream  theirs." 

Thus  exalting  and  thus  humbling  himself,  chirruping, 
sighing,  and  smiling  by  turns,  Pincot  would  capture 
our  hearts.  I  still  see  his  paintings  in  certain  shops. 
But  are  they  his  ?  Impossible  to  identify  works  in 
which  personality  is  so  nobly  sunk  in  duck-ponds. 
He  did  not  paint  something  "  as  he  saw  it,"  and  call 
it   Nature,  or    something    not  in    Nature  and  call    it 


LORDS  AND   LANDLADIES  77 

sensation.  All  I  know  is  that  the  bells  still  knoll  to 
church  over  those  lush  fields,  the  first  bulrush  in  the 
foreground  is  still  broken,  the  ducks  still  challenge 
permutation  without  revealing  Pincot.  And  still  the 
rooks  of  a  feudal  England  wheel  in  a  sky  that  secures 
the  love  and  wistfulness  of  many  humble  and  lowly 
men  of  heart. 

Just  such  a  country  church  as  the  poor  town-dweller 
loves  was  for  centuries  the  spiritual  home  and  the  last 
God's  acre  of  all  this  region.  "  Pancras  Church,"  says 
Norden,  writing  in  Shakespeare's  lifetime,  "  standeth 
all  alone,  as  utterly  forsaken  old  and  wether-beten, 
which  for  the  antiquity  thereof  is  thought  not  to  yield 
to  Panic's  in  London."  In  1777  John  Thomas  Smith 
came  here  with  his  father  and  some  young  pupils 
to  sketch.  He  tells  us  that  the  churchyard  was 
enclosed  only  by  an  old  hand-railing  in  some  parts 
covered  with  docks  and  nettles,  and  that  from  it  he 
had  a  perfect  view  of  Whitefield's  Chapel,  Montague 
House,  and  Bedford  House.  And  this  old  church, 
much  restored  and  disguised,  yet  in  size  and  suggestion 
a  country  church,  is  still  to  be  found  among  the 
gasometers  of  St.  Pancras. 

A  great  roll-call  of  its  dead  is  inscribed  on  a 
monument  in  the  churchyard,  and  many  of  the  lost 
epitaphs  have  been  collected.  They  include  such 
interesting  names  as  Pope's  Martha  Blount,  General 
Paoli,  Woollett  the  engraver,  Jeremy  Collier,  John 
Walker  of  the  "  Pronouncing  Dictionary,"  Ned  Ward 
of  the  *^  London  Spy,"  and  the  Chevalier  d'Eon. 
Here  was  buried  in  1797  Mary  Wolstonecraft  Godwin, 
who  had  died  at  her  home  in  the  Polygon,  Somers 
Town,  after  giving  birth  to  the  daughter  who  became 
the  second  wife  of  Shelley.  It  was  in  181 3  that 
Shelley,  distracted  by  his  alienation  from  his  wife,  met 


78  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Mary  Godwin,  then  a  beautiful  girl  of  sixteen,  at  the 
grave  of  her  mother.  In  her  ^'  Memorials,"  Lady 
Shelley  writes  :  *^  Shelley's  anguish,  his  isolation,  his 
difference  from  other  men,  his  gifts  of  genius  and 
eloquent  enthusiasm  had  already  made  a  deep  im- 
pression upon  her."  When  they  met  in  this  church- 
yard he  "  in  burning  words  poured  forth  the  tale  of 
his  wild  past — how  he  had  suffered,  how  he  had  been 
misled,  and  how,  if  supported  by  her  love,  he  hoped 
in  future  years  to  enrol  his  name  with  the  wise  and 
good  who  had  done  battle  for  their  fellow-men,  and  be 
true  through  all  adverse  storms  to  the  cause  of 
humanity.  Unhesitatingly  she  placed  her  hand  in  his 
and  linked  her  fortune  with  his  own." 

Time  was  when  one  Londoner  could  say  to  another, 
"  As  many  all-hails  to  thy  person  as  there  be  haicockes 
in  July  at  Pancredge."  To-day  the  church,  bereft  of 
half  its  graves,  overshadowed  by  gasometers,  environed 
by  railways  and  coal-yards,  is  a  place  of  pilgrimage  to 
few  ;  but  its  churchyard  has  been  made  into  a  recrea- 
tion-ground, that  the  porter's  child  may  not  play  on 
the  hole  of  the  asp  or  the  coal-heaver's  child  put  his 
hand  on  the  cockatrice'  den. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY 

The  Street  called  Broad — A  Forgotten  Burial-ground — Before 
Harley  Street — Sir  Astley  Cooper  in  Broad  Street — The  Importance 
of  being  Charles — The  Five  Great  Drugs — Dr.  Gardner's  "  Last  and 
Best  Bedroom  " — The  Resurrection  Men — A  Home  of  Learning — The 
Devil  or  Dr.  Bull — Mead  and  Radcliffe — Queen  Anne  is  dead — 
"  Rejected  Addresses  " — The  Rothschild — "  Happy  !  Me  happy  ?  " — 
A  Bitter  Farewell— Macaulay's  Playground — Death  in  Tokenhouse 
Yard— A  Great  Auctioneer— Jack  Ellis— The  Poet  of  Cornhill— The 
Hosier  of  Freeman's  Court — Samuel  Rogers  in  the  City — Dodson  and 
Fogg — Thackeray  in  Cornhill — William  Wynne  Ryland — The  Im- 
mortal Tailor— The  Cornhill  Pump—"  Patty-pan  "  Birch— The  East 
India  House — How  to  apply  for  an  Appointment — A  Head  from  the 
Tower — "Those  that  encamp  toward  the  East "— Spitalfields — The 
Uttermost  Parts 

TO  know  modern  London  it  is  necessary  to  have 
eaten  one's  bread  in  Bloomsbury  and  to  have 
earned  it  in  the  City.  Let  us  then  go  to  the  City. 
Nowhere  has  its  day  a  more  visible  beginning  than  in 
front  of  Broad  Street  and  Liverpool  Street  Stations. 
Dr.  Johnson's  opinion  that  the  full  tide  of  human 
existence  is  seen  at  Charing  Cross  must  stand ;  but 
here,  surely,  is  the  other  pole  of  London's  activity. 

Old  Broad  Street — which  is  not  more  broad  than 
Water  Lane  is  wet — is  casually  regarded  by  most 
Londoners  as  the  first  stretch  in  a  great  bus  route 
westward.     Nor  does  Broad  Street  suggest  outwardly 

79 


8o  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

that  it  has  a  long  memory.  Its  soaring  black  stone 
buildings,  rising  to  a  sky  crossed  and  fretted  by 
wires,  do  not  whisper  enchantments  under  the  City's 
moon.  Yet  here  and  there  a  stately  red-brick  building 
begins  to  assert  a  gracious  incongruity,  and  a  glimpse 
up  a  narrow  court  or  through  a  tall  archway  corrects 
the  first  sense  of  surly  monotony. 

Broad  Street  Station  was  built  on  the  site  of  a  grave- 
yard, where  some  sixty  years  ago  the  skulls  of  dead 
Bedlamites  were  thrown  up  on  the  spade.  Some,  not 
all.  A  number  were  carelessly  left,  and  have  been 
turned  up  since  in  strange  surroundings.  No  later 
than  1890  a  Londoner  wrote  :  **A  few  months  ago  I 
happened  to  be  on  one  of  the  platforms  of  the  Broad 
Street  Station,  where  extensive  alterations  are  being 
carried  out  (it  was  in  the  evening),  and  whilst  waiting 
for  a  train  one  of  the  newsboys  came  up  and  asked 
me  if  I  would  like  a  ^  skeleton's  head ' ;  and,  pointing 
to  a  large  heap  of  earth,  etc.,  said,  *  There  are  lots  of 
bones  and  skulls  there.'  Not  exactly  realizing  for  the 
moment  what  he  meant,  I  said  *  No ' ;  but  afterwards 
I  remembered  the  old  burying-ground,  and  concluded 
that  these  were  some  of  the  remains  which  had  not 
been  carefully  carted  away."  ^ 

Almost  within  living  memory  Broad  Street  has  been 
a  veritable  Harley  Street  in  its  attraction  for  the  most 
humane  of  the  professions.  At  one  time  no  fewer 
than  twenty  medical  men  lived  and  practised  in  it. 
Nothing  better  illustrates  the  change  which  came  over 
the  social  life  of  the  City  in  the  early  part  of  the 
last  century  than  the  flitting  to  the  west  end  of  the 
town  of  the  physicians  and  surgeons  who  thrived  in 
Finsbury  Square,  Finsbury  Pavement,  and  the  Broad 
Street  and  Bishopsgate  Street  regions.  The  medical 
'  "  Notes  and  Queries,"  25  October,  1890. 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  8i 

centre  of  gravity  in  London  was  then  as  definitely  in 
the  east^  as  it  is  now  in  the  west,  and  it  was  quite  in 
the  order  of  things  that  Sir  Astley  Cooper  should  earn 
as  much  as  ;£2i,ooo  in  a  single  year  in  Broad  Street. 
But  the  tale  of  removals  to  the  West  End  became 
ever  longer.  Thus  Dr.  John  Fothergill  built  up 
his  great  reputation  in  Lombard  Street,  and  spent 
his  later  and  more  leisured  years  in  Harper  Street, 
Bloomsbury.  Henry  Cline,  the  great  surgeon,  moved 
from  St.  Mary  Axe  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  ;  Dr. 
Robert  Gooch  from  Aldermanbury  to  Berner's  Street ; 
and  Sir  Astley  Cooper  from  New  Broad  Street  to 
Spring  Gardens. 

Sir  Astley  Cooper's  period  in  Broad  Street  has  the 
centenary  interest,  for  he  was  in  full  practice  there  in 
1813.  The  street  was  then  much  more  domestic,  and 
correspondingly  more  cheerful,  than  it  is  to-day. 

**  While  my  uncle  was  living  in  Broad  Street,"  says 
his  nephew  and  biographer,  ^'  many,  if  not  most,  of 
the  first  merchants  in  London  had  residences  in  the 
City ;  those  who  had  also  houses  in  the  country 
leaving  London  generally  on  the  Friday  evening,  and 
returning  on  the  following  Monday  or  Tuesday 
morning  ;  2  so  that  the  appearance  of  many  streets  to 
the  eastward  of  St.  Paul's  is  now  so  different  as  hardly 
to  permit  them  to  be  recognized  by  anyone  familiar 
with  them  in  those  days.  Most  of  the  great  houses 
which,  at  the  present  day,  have  their  street  doors  open 
for  more  speedy  access  to  the  common  stairs,  which 

'  The  Royal  College  of  Physicians,  now  of  Pall  Mall,  was  founded 
in  Knightrider  Street  by  Linacre,  and  flourished  for  centuries  in 
Warwick  Lane,  near  Paternoster  Row. 

*  The  prevalence  of  the  "  week-end  habit "  at  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  and  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  centuries  could  be 
demonstrated  in  a  manner  that  would  surprise  many  who  hastily 
judge  it  to  be  a  mere  modern  frivolity. 

G 


82  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

again  lead  to  numerous  offices  on  the  several  floors 
were  then  private  mansions,  exhibiting  abundant  signs 
of  the  wealth  and  magnificence  of  their  proprietors. 

"  In  the  evening  the  light  over  every  door  in  the 
best  streets,  and  Broad  Street  was  among  the  number, 
the  carriages  of  visitors,  and  the  illuminated  windows 
of  the  houses  in  which  parties  were  assembled,  gave 
them  an  appearance  which  is  now  only  to  be  observed 
in  the  more  modern  parts  of  the  metropolis." 

Cooper's  house  stood  at  the  west  corner  of  Bishops- 
gate  Churchyard,  now  called  Church  Passage.  The 
older  name  may  still  be  seen  within  the  archway 
leading  out  of  New  Broad  Street.  His  stables  and 
dissecting  laboratory  were  in  the  passage.  The 
Cerberus  with  whom  every  anxious  caller  had  to 
reckon  was  Dr.  Cooper's  faithful  Charles,  whose  duty 
it  was  to  introduce  the  patients  in  the  proper  order, 
and  then  to  extract  them  from  the  consulting-room 
with  due  speed.  For  the  latter  process  Charles  used 
the  dental  term  drawing,  and  it  was  his  opinion  that 
it  was  more  difficult  to  draw  one  woman  than  two 
men.  "  A  gentleman,  sir,"  was  Charles's  signal  to 
a  tedious  patient  to  depart  when  he  thought  that 
enough  of  his  master's  time  had  been  occupied. 
Often  it  was  a  sheer  impossibility  to  pass  all  the 
patients  through  the  consulting-room  before  one 
o'clock,  at  which  hour  it  was  imperative  that  the 
physician  should  go  to  Guy's  Hospital.  Delay  was 
impossible,  and  therefore  Charles,  who  had  spent  the 
morning  in  deferring  hope,  had  now  to  allay  heart- 
sickness,  which  he  did  with  happy  tact — telling  the 
residue  of  patients  that  if  they  came  early  next 
morning  they  would  have  the  advantage  of  his 
master's  freshest  judgment.  On  some  mornings  the 
final  tangle  in   Broad  Street  was  unusually  difficult, 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  83 

and  Sir  Astley  would  escape  through  the  back-yard  into 
the  stables,  and  thence  into  the  passage  by  the  side  of 
Bishopsgate  Church  and  so  into  Wormwood  Street, 
where  his  coachman,  who  understood  the  plot, 
presently  followed  him. 

Cooper's  patients  paid  him  liberal  fees,  and  his 
receipts  were  increased  by  the  circumstance  that  they 
seldom  paid  him  in  cash.  Most  paid  by  cheque,  and 
the  acute  physician  appreciated  the  fact  that  patients 
who  would  be  chary  of  taking  two  or  three  guineas 
out  of  their  pockets  cheerfully  wrote  a  cheque  for 
five.  From  certain  wealthy  patients  he  derived  great 
profit.  Mr.  Coles,  a  great  Mincing  Lane  merchant, 
paid  him  ;^6oo  a  year.  Another  patient,  a  neighbour 
in  Broad  Street,  whom  he  had  insisted  on  attending 
only  in  the  way  of  friendship,  took  a  ticket  in  a 
lottery  which  fetched  ;£2ooo,  and  this  sum  he  sent  to 
Cooper,  insisting  that  this  too  was  given  in  friendship. 
When  Mr.  Hyatt,  a  West  Indian  merchant,  had  to 
undergo  an  operation,  he  gave  Doctors  Lettsom  and 
Nelson  ^£300  each,  and  then  jovially  flung  his 
nightcap  at  Cooper,  who  found  in  it  a  cheque  for 
a  thousand  guineas. 

All  Sir  Astley's  prescriptions  were  simple,  and  he 
said  :  *'  Give  me  opium,  tartarized  antimony,  sulphate 
of  magnesia,  calomel,  and  bark,  and  I  would  ask  for 
little  else  ;  these  are  adequate  to  restore  all  the  actions 
of  the  body,  if  there  be  power  of  constitution  to  admit 
of  the  restoration."  So  great  was  the  magic  of 
Astley  Cooper's  name  that  a  fraudulent  medical  gang 
or  syndicate  exploited  the  name  Dr.  Ashley  Cooper 
and,  setting  up  a  quack  establishment  in  Charlotte 
Street,  Blackfriars  Road,  achieved  for  a  time  a  con- 
siderable success.  A  good  foil  to  this  affair  was  the 
calling  in  of  Cooper  by  another  quack  when  he  lay  ill. 


/ 


84  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

His  biographer  tells  the  story  :  "  Mr.  Cooper  was  sent 

for  by  Dr.  G ,  an  advertising  quack  in  Shoreditch, 

whose  windows  announced  in  capital  letters  THE 
UNIVERSAL  REMEDY  UNDER  GOD.  Before 
examining  the  injury,  my  uncle  began  to  banter  him, 
suggesting  a  trial  of  the  Universal  Remedy.    *Come, 

come,     Dr.    Cooper,'     replied     G ,     '  this     is     a 

serious    affair.' "     I    have    no    doubt    that    the  ^'  Dr. 

G "   here    referred    to    was    Dr.   John    Gardner, 

who  had  his  shop  just  below  Shoreditch,  in  Norton 
Folgate,  where  he  practised  largely  as  a  worm  doctor. 
Gardner's  tombstone  may  be  seen  close  to  the  railings 
of  the  churchyard  of  St.  Leonard's,  Shoreditch,  in- 
scribed :  "  1807,  Dr.  John  Gardner's  Last  and  Best 
Bedroom,"  etc.  The  date  1807  is  explained  by  the 
fact  that  he  erected  it  in  that  year  in  the  churchyard. 
Finding  that  he  was  consequently  assumed  to  be  dead, 
and  that  his  business  declined,  he  interpolated  the 
word  **  intended,"  which  was  removed  after  his 
actual  death. 

In  Broad  Street,  as  more  frequently  in  his  earlier 
practice  in  St.  Mary  Axe,  Sir  Astley  Cooper  had  those 
dealings  with  the  "  body-snatchers  "  which  belong  to 
a  darker  medical  age  than  ours.  On  the  dissection  of 
the  dead  human  body  all  medical  training  and  know- 
ledge depended  and  still  depends.  Without  the 
necessary  supply  of  "  subjects "  the  medical  schools 
must  have  closed  their  doors,  and  Cooper,  as  a  great 
medical  teacher  and  investigator,  became  involved  to 
a  bewildering  extent  in  the  only  method  which  existed 
of  obtaining  dead  bodies.  It  is  a  grim  chapter.  But 
the  finest  physicians  of  the  day  felt  justified  in  seeking, 
in  what  way  they  could,  the  one  means  by  which  the 
alleviation  of  human  suffering  and  the  training  of 
students  could   be   carried    on.      I    refer  those   who 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  85 

desire  a  fuller  knowledge  of  this  side  of  Sir  Astley 
Cooper's  career  to  two  dreadful  chapters  in  his 
biography,  where  the  treatment  of  the  subject  is  not 
more  defensive  than  candid.  Cooper's  nephew  is 
satisfied  to  write  :  '^  It  is  held  as  a  common  maxim 
that  those  who  make  use,  in  any  way,  of  persons 
employed  in  illicit  transactions,  are  as  criminal  as  the 
delinquents  themselves ;  but  in  this  case  the  urgent 
necessity,  for  the  sake  of  public  good,  of  such  apparent 
dereliction  from  duty,  removes  such  a  charge  of  guilt 
from  the  surgeons." 

The  evil  at  last  reached  dimensions  which  wrought 
its  legislative  cure.  Sir  Astley  Cooper  frankly  told 
a  Committee  of  the  House  of  Commons  that  there 
was  no  person,  let  his  situation  in  life  be  what  it 
might,  whose  dead  body  he  could  not  obtain  if  he 
wished.  The  Anatomy  Act  of  1832  put  an  end  to  the 
whole  dreadful  system.  One  observation  should  be 
made.  It  is  that  when  the  need  for  anatomical  subjects 
brought  forth  the  infamous  body-snatcher,  physicians 
themselves  very  frequently  offered  their  own  remains 
for  dissection  in  the  interests  of  the  profession  they 
had  followed  and  loved.  Indeed,  several  such 
instances  can  be  connected  with  Broad  Street.  Sir 
Astley  Cooper  himself  left  strict  injunctions  that  his 
body  should  be  examined,  and  gave  directions  on  the 
particular  points  which  he  considered  would  deserve 
attention.  The  eccentric  Dr.  Mounsey,  the  friend  of 
Garrick  and  of  many  of  the  most  eminent  men  of 
his  time,  arranged  with  Mr.  John  Cooper  Forster, 
of  Union  Court,  Broad  Street,  that  his  body  should  be 
dissected,  and  Forster  actually  dissected  and  lectured 
on  it  at  Guy's  Hospital.^ 

^  Another  Broad  Street  physician,  Thomas  Robson  Ellerby,  who 
died  29  January,  1827,  a    member  of  the    Society  of   Friends,  left 


86  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

The  City  man  hurrying  down  Broad  Street  to  the 
Stock  Exchange  may  think  of  the  street  as  the  home 
of  learning,  where  divines  and  mathematicians  and 
jurists  and  doctors  of  medicine  have  taught  and  toiled, 
and  where  astronomers  have  explored  the  mountains 
in  the  moon  as  earnestly  as  he  who  poised  his  glass 

At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands, 
Rivers  or  mountains  on  her  spotty  globe. 

For  the  largest  commercial  building  in  Old  Broad 
Street  is  Gresham  House,  the  representative  of  the  old 
mansion  that  was  the  home  of  Sir  Thomas  Gresham, 
which  he  bequeathed  to  the  Corporation  of  London 
and  the  Mercers'  Company,  to  be  used  as  a  college 
and  as  an  institution  for  the  delivery  of  lectures  on 
seven  sciences. 

The  characters  of  Broad  Street's  wise  men  are  drawn 
in  Ward's  "  Lives  of  the  Gresham  Professors."  Here 
in  the  *^  Geometry  Professors'  Lodgings,"  in  a  shady 
corner  of  the  Green  Court  of  the  College,  Henry 
Briggs  heard  in  the  year  1615  of  Napier's  great  dis- 
covery of  logarithms.  He  resolved  to  visit  the  Laird 
of  Murcheston  in  Scotland,  and  he  did  so  in  the 
following  summer.  Each  knew  of  the  other's  genius, 
and  Lilly  tells  that  when  they  met  they  looked  long  at 
each  other,  while  minutes  passed,  without  speaking,  in 
the  silent  comradeship  of  truth-seeking. 

In  Gresham  College,  as  its  professor  of  astronomy, 
Christopher  Wren  lectured  when  he  was  twenty-five. 

explicit  directions  that  his  body  should  be  "  taken  to  Mr.  Kiernan's  or 
some  other  dissecting-room,"  and  he  added  a  strong  expression  of 
his  opinion  that  such  a  sacrifice  was  incumbent  on  every  member 
of.his  profession. 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  ^  87 

His  opening  oration  was  an  attempt  to  explain  scienti- 
fically the  going  backward  by  ten  degrees  of  the 
shadow  on  the  dial  of  King  Ahaz.^  In  Wren's 
chambers  were  to  be  seen  the  men  who  a  few  years 
later  founded  the  Royal  Society. 

Another  story  in  Ward's  noble  folio  concerns  Dr. 
John  Bull,  whose  anthems  still  have  a  place  in  our 
cathedral  music.  Bull  fell  ill  and  was  allowed  to 
appoint  a  substitute  at  the  College  and  to  travel  abroad 
for  a  year.  Anthony  Wood  tells  the  story  with  almost 
scriptural  unction  : — 

^'  Dr.  Bull  took  occasion  to  go  incognito  into  France 
and  Germany.  At  length,  hearing  of  a  famous  musi- 
cian belonging  to  a  certain  cathedral  (at  St.  Omer's,  as 
I  have  heard),  he  applied  himself  as  a  novice  to  him 
to  learn  something  of  his  faculty  and  to  see  and 
admire  his  works.  This  musician,  after  some  dis- 
course had  passed  between  them,  conducted  Bull  to 
a  vestry,  or  music  school,  joining  to  the  cathedral, 
and  shew'd  to  him  a  lesson  or  song  of  forty  parts, 
and  then  made  a  vaunting  challenge  to  any  person  in 
the  world  to  add  one  more  part  to  them ;  supposing 
it  to  be  so  complete  and  full  that  it  was  impossible  for 
any  mortal  man  to  correct  or  add  to  it. 

"  Bull  thereupon  desiring  the  use  of  ink  and  rul'd 
paper  (such  as  we  call  musical  paper)  prayed  the 
musician  to  lock  him  up  in  the  said  school  for  two 
or  three  hours  ;  which  being  done,  not  without  great 
disdain  by  the  musician.  Bull  in  that  time,  or  less, 
added  forty  more  parts  to  the  said  lesson  or  song. 
The  musician  thereupon  being  called  in,  he  viewed  it, 
tried  it,  and  retried  it.  At  length  he  burst  out  into  a 
great  ecstasy  and  swore  by  the  great  God  that  he  that 
added  those  forty  parts  must  either  he  the  devil  or  Dr, 

*  See  2  Kings  xx,  8-1 1. 


88  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Bull.  Whereupon  Bull  making  himself  known,  the 
musician  fell  down  and  ador'd  him." 

Evil  days  fell  at  last  on  the  institution  that  bred 
these  men.  In  1710  the  Royal  Society  forsook  Broad 
Street  for  Crane  Court  in  Fleet  Street.  In  1768  the 
City  Fathers  judged  that  the  site  of  Gresham  College 
had  become  more  valuable  than  its  lectures,  and,  to 
the  indignation  of  the  learned  world,  the  professors 
were  bundled  into  rooms  in  the  Royal  Exchange  and 
their  decayed  home  pulled  down.  The  halls  of  learn- 
ing gave  place  to  an  Excise  office.  The  precincts  of 
Gresham  College  are  therefore  dust  under  the  wheels. 
Its  Green  Court,  square  to  exactness,  with  diagonal 
paths  and  spaced  saplings  ;  its  north  and  south  piazzas ; 
its  reading-hall  and  observatory  and  its  decent  lodgings 
for  men  of  refinement  and  learning — all  are  reduced  to 
a  commercial  name,  a  flight  of  steps,  and  an  apple- 
woman. 

In  Austin  Friars,  a  precinct  full  of  memories.  Dr. 
Richard  Mead,  the  most  scholarly  and  magnificent 
physician  of  his  time,  had  a  house  early  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  There  under  the  shadow  of  the 
old  prior  of  the  Augustine  Friars,  which  had  long 
been  the  principal  Dutch  church  in  London,  he 
received  his  friends  with  large  hospitality  ;  and  there 
the  outspoken  Radcliffe,  who  had  told  William  the 
Third  that  he  would  not  have  His  Majesty's  legs  in 
exchange  for  his  three  kingdoms,  sat  and  talked 
"shop."  It  may  have  been  in  Austin  Friars  that  the 
dialogue  took  place  which  goes  far  to  explain  the 
existence  of  friendship  where  rivalry  might  have  been 
expected.  Mead  was  a  young  man  of  tact,  and  knew 
how  to  please  the  Court  physician.  Radcliffe,  paying  his 
first  call  on  the  younger  City  practitioner,  demanded  in 
his  brusque  way ;  "  Do  you  read  Hippocrates  in  Greek  ?  " 


IN    BROAD    STREET,    K.C. 

SOARING    BLACK    STONE    BUILDINGS    RISING  TO  A  SKV  CROSSED  AND  FKETTKD  bV  WIRES 

(.'.   80) 


THE  CITY   MAN'S   CITY  89 

"Yes,"  replied  Mead  timidly,  not  wishing  to  vaunt 
his  scholarship  to  his  notoriously  unlearned  senior. 

"  I  never  read  him  in  my  life,"  snapped  Radcliffe. 

"You,  sir,  have  no  need — you  are  Hippocrates 
himself." 

Another  interchange  took  place  at  a  dinner-party  at 
Carshalton,  where  Radcliffe  (such  were  the  manners  of 
the  day)  deliberately  tried  to  make  his  young  rival 
drunk.  He  did  not  succeed.  Guest  after  guest  fell 
under  the  table  until  only  the  old  doctor  and  the 
young  rival  sat  in  their  chairs. 

"  Mead,"  cried  the  veteran,  "  you  are  a  rising  man. 
You  will  succeed  me." 

"  That,  sir,  is  impossible ;  you  are  Alexander  the 
Great,  and  who  can  succeed  Radcliffe  ? " 

"  By ! "  was  the  reply,  "  I'll  recommend  you  to 

my  patients." 

And  he  did,  with  the  result  that,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
said,  "  Dr.  Mead  lived  more  in  the  broad  sunshine  of 
life  than  almost  any  man." 

It  was  in  Austin  Friars  that  Mead  received  the 
summons  which  sealed  his  fame  and  prosperity.  He 
was  called  to  the  death-bed  of  Queen  Anne,  and, 
having  seen  her  die  in  an  atmosphere  charged  with 
apprehension,  intrigue,  and  duplicity,  he  returned, 
immensely  lifted  in  fame  and  favour,  to  Austin  Friars 
and  to  his  daily  gossip  at  Batson's  Coffee-house  by 
the  Royal  Exchange.  This  coffee-house,  by  the  way, 
was  the  club  and  rendezvous  of  the  Broad  Street  and 
other  City  doctors,  who,  according  to  a  writer  in  the 
"Connoisseur,"  flocked  together  like  birds  of  prey  watch- 
ing for  carcasses  at  Batson's.  Mead  went  there  to  meet 
his  apothecary  friends  and  prescribe  for  the  hospital 
cases  which  they  described  to  him.  If  we  are  to  be- 
lieve another  writer  of  the  period,  this  was  the  settled 


90  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

custom  :  physicians  never  visited  the  hospitals,  but 
prescribed  in  this  manner,  at  second-hand,  for  the 
trustful  patients. 

There  have  been  other  famous  tenants  of  this  quiet 
precinct  at  the  elbow  of  the  Stock  Exchange.  That 
learned,  voluminous,  opulent,  and  highly  respectable 
antiquary,  Richard  Gough,  was  born  in  Austin  Friars 
i^  1735"  No  books  are  handsomer — or  less  read — 
than  Gough's  "  Sepulchral  Monuments  "  or  his  trans- 
lation of  Camden's  "  Britannia,"  which  occupied  him 
seven  years  at  his  fine  house  at  Enfield.  Literary  men 
may  digest  with  profit  the  story  that  during  these 
years  of  toil  Gough  remained  so  accessible  to  his 
family  that  no  member  of  it  was  aware  of  his  under- 
taking. Horace  Walpole  unkindly,  and,  on  the  whole, 
unjustly,  described  Gough  as  "one  of  those  industrious 
men  who  are  only  re-burying  the  dead."  Certainly 
Gough  was  no  "Futurist"  ;  so  straightly  did  his  mind 
run  in  old  grooves  that  when  bewailing  an  ancient 
cross  that  had  been  removed  he  added  that  its  site  was 
occupied  by  "an  unmeaning  market-house." 

Austin  Friars  had  been  a  choice  residential  precinct 
for  at  least  two  centuries  when,  in  1888,  the  last  of  its 
fine  old  houses.  No.  i,  was  ruthlessly  destroyed.^  By 
chance  I  am  able  to  remember  its  line  old  staircase 
and  panelled  walls.  It  had  been  built  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  all  its  tenants  had 

*  This  house  is  described  by  Mr.  Philip  Norman  and  drawn  by  Mr. 
Emslie,  in  the  "Illustrated  Topographical  Record  of  London"  {third 
series),  issued  by  the  London  Topographical  Society  in  1900.  Its  first 
tenant  was  Herman  Olmius,  merchant,  descended  from  an  ancient 
Luxembourg  family.  His  eldest  son  became  a  Governor  of  the  Bank 
of  England  and  his  grandson  an  Irish  peer.  For  many  years  after 
1783  the  well-known  Huguenot  family  of  Minet  occupied  the  house, 
which  was  afterwards  used  as  business  premises  by  Messrs.  Thomas, 
Son,  &  Lefevre. 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  91 

been  merchant  princes.  It  had  a  large  garden,  with 
bakehouse,  brewhouse,  and  stables  ;  even  the  old  well 
and  pump  remained.  I  see  the  house  now  as  a  kind 
of  dim  ^^  Blakesmoor  "  of  the  City. 

The  brothers  James  and  Horace  Smith,  authors  of 
the  "Rejected  Addresses,"  lived  at  No.  18  Austin 
Friars,  and  James  resided  there  for  many  years  before 
he  took  his  house  in  Craven  Street,  Strand.  In  Austin 
Friars  the  '^Rejected  Addresses,"  published  in  181 2 
on  the  opefiing  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  were  written. 
The  success  of  the  little  volumes  was  enormous,  and  it 
touched  the  pride  of  John  Murray  (the  Second),  who 
had  rejected  the  "  Rejected,"  a  mistake  which  he 
instantly  repented  when  he  had  read  the  book  and 
heard  Byron  call  it  "by  far  the  best  thing  since  the 
Rolliad."  He  said  afterwards,  "  I  could  have  had  the 
^  Rejected  Addresses '  for  £20^  but  let  them  go  by  as 
the  kite  of  the  moment."  The  kite  has  flown  well 
ever  since  and  has  attained  its  centenary.  However, 
Murray  lived  to  hold  the  string.  Miller,  of  Bow 
Street,  who  had  published  the  brothers'  farcical 
"  Highgate  Tunnel,"  took  the  first  risk,  and  the  Smiths 
reaped  ;^iooo  from  the  first  three  editions ;  but 
Murray,  determined  to  retrieve  his  error,  was  at  last 
able  to  purchase  the  well-milked  copyright  for  ;£i3i. 

James  Smith's  heart  was  in  the  West  End,  where  his 
talents,  wit,  and  social  gifts  procured  him  an  entry  into 
the  innermost  circles  of  society  and  clubland.  In  his 
City  office  he  is  said  to  have  looked  as  serious  as  the 
parchments  surrounding  him.  Horace  was  a  stock- 
broker in  Shorter's  Court,  but  he  lived  and  slept  in 
Austin  Friars.  Possessing  the  two  great  essentials 
of  stock-broking,  prudence  and  a  host  of  friends, 
he  steadily  amassed  a  reasonable  fortune.  He  appears 
to  have  been  occasionally  a  victim  of  the  numerous 


92  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Napoleonic  scares,  and  his  verses,  **The  Stock-jobber's 
Lament,"  are  redolent  of  the  period  and  of  Stock 
Exchange  emotions. 

Napoleon,  who  with  me  has  play'd  the  Devil, 
Has  doubtless  acted  it  with  many  more, 

In  midnight  massacres  disposed  to  revel, 
Or  poison  soldiers  upon  Jaffa's  shore. 

All  other  crimes  I  could  forgive  thee,  Boney, 
But  this  exceeds  the  blackest  in  degree  ; 

'Tis  murderous  sacrilege  to  take  my  money, 
For  money  is  both  life  and  soul  to  me. 

Now,  concerning  the  Stock  Exchange  and  its 
history  and  hoaxes,  its  men  and  manners,  its  panics 
and  pastimes,  are  not  all  these  things  written  in  the 
books  ?  I  pass  to  a  single  portrait.  "  He  was  just 
such  a  man  as  the  hoys  in  the  street  would  have  thought 
a  fine  subject  for  ^  a  lark ' — unless,  indeed,  they  had  been 
deterred  by  the  lowering  expression  or  sullen  aspect  of  his 
countenance.  He  always  looked  sulky,"  This  was  the 
man  whose  figure  still  stands  out  as  the  greatest  that 
has  ever  haunted  the  Royal  Exchange  and  the  Stock 
Exchange — Nathan  Meyer  Rothschild,  as  seen  by  an 
eye-witness  when  Napoleon's  power  hung  like  a 
thunder-cloud  over  the  bourses  of  Europe.  In  the 
Royal  Exchange  this  genius  had  his  favourite  pillar, 
against  which  he  leaned,  and  from  which  he  never 
stirred.  In  the  Stock  Exchange  he  was  hardly  less 
a  statue,  if  we  may  trust  a  contemporary  writer  who 
compares  the  monarch  of  finance  to  "  the  pillar 
of  salt  into  which  the  avaricious  spouse  of  the 
patriarch  was  turned." 

When  Rothschild  stood  on  the  Stock  Exchange  he 
could  inspire  such  a  description  as  this  : — 

**Eyes  are  usually  denominated  the  windows  of  the 


J 


THE   CITY  MAN'S   CITY  93 

soul  ;  but  here  you  would  conclude  that  the  windows 
are  false  ones,  or  that  there  is  no  soul  to  look  out  at 
them.  There  comes  not  one  pencil  of  light  from  the 
interior,  neither  is  there  one  scintillation  of  that  which 
comes  from  without  reflected  in  any  direction. 

"  The  whole  puts  you  in  mind  of  '  a  skin  to  let,'  and 
you  wonder  why  it  stands  upright  without  at  least 
something  within.  By  and  by  another  figure  comes 
up  to  it.  It  then  steps  two  paces  aside,  and  the  most 
inquisitive  glance  that  ever  you  saw,  and  a  glance 
more  inquisitive  than  you  would  ever  have  thought 
of,  is  drawn  out  of  the  erewhile  fixed  and  leaden  eye, 
as  if  one  were  drawing  a  sword  from  a  scabbard. 

^'The  visiting  figure,  which  has  the  appearance  of 
coming  by  accident,  and  not  by  design,  stops  but  a 
second  or  two,  in  the  course  of  which  looks  are 
exchanged  which,  though  you  cannot  translate,  you 
feel  must  be  of  the  most  important  meaning.  After 
these,  the  eyes  are  sheathed  up  again,  and  the  figure 
resumes  its  stony  posture.  During  the  morning 
numbers  of  visitors  come,  all  of  whom  meet  with 
a  similar  reception,  and  vanish  in  a  similar  manner ; 
and  last  of  all  the  figure  itself  vanishes,  leaving  you 
utterly  at  a  loss  as  to  what  can  be  its  nature  and 
functions." 

This  is  not  the  portrait  of  a  particularly  happy  man, 
and  Nathan  Meyer  Rothschild  never  professed  that 
money  lifted  him  above  care.  He  had  so  much  reason 
to  fear  assassination  that  once,  in  a  fit  of  suspicious 
terror,  he  flung  a  ledger  at  two  respectable  strangers 
who  had  presented  themselves  at  his  office,  and  who 
were  rummaging  in  their  pockets,  not  for  lethal 
weapons,  but  for  their  letters  of  introduction.  "  You 
must  be  a  happy  man,"  a  guest  said  to  Rothschild 
in    his    splendid     suburban     home.      ^*  Happy ' — me 


94  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

happy ! "  was  the  reply.  "  What  !  happy  when, 
just  as  you  are  going  to  dine,  you  have  a  letter 
placed  in  your  hands,  saying,  Mf  you  do  not  send 
me  £soo  I  shall  blow  your  brains  out'?  Happy! — 
me  happy  ! "     Such  are  the  legends. 

The  church,  which  almost  fills  the  cool  square  of 
Austin  Friars,  is  the  successor  to  the  old  priory  of  the 
begging  friars,  who  dedicated  their  foundation  to  Saint 
Augustine,  Bishop  of  Hippo,  in  Africa.  And  here,  in 
the  heart  of  the  City,  in  the  very  swirl  of  stock- 
broking,  sleeps  one  of  Shakespeare's  finest  characters, 
a  victim  of  the  Tower — even  Edward  Bohun,  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  who  hated  Wolsey  to  his  own  undoing. 
The  scene  of  his  departure  from  Westminster  to  the 
Tower  is  touchingly  drawn  in  ^*  Henry  the  Eighth," 
and  his  farewell  words  have  an  enduring  bitterness : — 

This  from  a  dying  man  receive  as  certain: 
Where  you  are  liberal  of  your  loves  and  counsels 
Be  sure  you  be  not  loose  ;  for  those  you  make  friends 
And  give  your  heart  to,  when  once  they  perceive 
The  least  rub  in  your  fortunes,  fall  away 
Like  water  from  ye,  never  found  again 
But  where  they  mean  to  sink  ye. 

The  priory  church  was  ultimately  granted  to  the 
Dutch  people  in  London,  under  the  name  of  "Jesus 
Temple,"  and  here  they  still  worship,  singing  the 
hymns  of  their  fatherland  over  the  graves  of  their 
forefathers.  In  the  library  the  Ten  Commandments 
are  seen  as  they  were  inscribed  by  Peter  Paul  Rubens. 
The  church  is  a  haven  of  silence  in  the  pit  of  the 
City ;  to  walk  in  its  deeply  shadowed  nave,  paved  with 
memorial  slabs,  is  to  breathe  the  air  of  a  place  which 
for  six  centuries  has  been  the  home  of  faith  and 
learning — nor  least  when  the  friars  sang  great  men 
to  rest  in  the  Latin  tongue. 


THE   CITY   MAN'S  CITY  95 

From  Austin  Friars  one  strolls  by  devious  new-built 
alleys  into  Drapers'  Gardens.  Not  much  more  than 
twenty  years  ago  the  word  '^  garden  "  was  descriptive, 
but  to-day  it  is  a  courtesy.  Here,  when  the  paths 
were  longer  and  the  trees  bigger,  the  children  of 
City  merchants  and  bankers  were  given  the  air  and 
freedom  to  play  their  games.  Such  a  child — a  spirited 
boy — was  regularly  brought  here  by  his  mother  from 
a  house  in  Birchin  Lane,  in  the  first  decade  of  the  last 
century.  This  was  the  future  Lord  Macaulay.  **So 
strong  was  the  power  of  association,"  says  Trevelyan, 
**  upon  Macaulay's  mind  that  in  after  years  Drapers' 
Gardens  was  among  his  favourite  haunts.  Indeed,  his 
habit  of  roaming  for  hours  through  and  through  the 
heart  of  the  City  (a  habit  that  never  left  him  as  long 
as  he  could  roam  at  all)  was  due  in  part  to  the 
recollections  which  caused  him  to  regard  that  region 
as  native  ground." 

The  somewhat  circular  route  which  it  is  natural  to 
take  in  a  midday  stroll  may  bring  you  from  Drapers' 
Gardens  to  another  purlieu  with  an  ancient  name,  in 
which  modern  activities  usurp  the  site  of  old  families 
and  histories.  "  Oh,  Death,  Death,  Death  1 "  was  the 
cry,  uttered  "in  a  most  inimitable  tone,"  heard  by 
Daniel  Defoe  from  an  upper  casement  in  Tokenhouse 
Yard,  in  the  height  of  the  Great  Plague.  So,  at  least, 
he  tells  us,  in  his  "  Memoirs  of  the  Plague,"  but  it 
could  hardly  have  been  a  personal  experience.  The 
horror  of  the  incident  is  deepened  by  Defoe's  state- 
ment that  "  there  was  nobody  to  be  seen  in  the  whole 
street,  neither  did  any  other  window  open,  for  people 
had  no  curiosity  now  in  any  case,  nor  could  anybody 
help  one  another,  so  I  went  on  to  pass  into  Bell 
Alley." 

Tokenhouse   Yard  was    built    by   the   Marquis    of 


96  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Lansdowne's  brilliant  ancestor,  Sir  William  Petty, 
the  most  versatile  gentleman  of  his  age.  He  mapped 
Ireland  with  a  thoroughness  of  surveyorship  never 
before  achieved,  acquired  a  great  fortune,  invented  a 
double-bottomed  ship,  married  a  witty  and  beautiful 
woman,  became  an  original  member  of  the  Royal 
Society,  wrote  admirable  Latin  verses,  selected  a 
dark  cellar  and  an  axe  for  a  duel  that  he  never 
had  to  fight,  was  appointed  a  Commissioner  of  the 
Navy,  astonished  the  world  by  his  analysis  of  the 
London  "  Bills  of  Mortality,"  and  his  treatise  on 
taxes,  and  only  failed  to  win  favour  at  Court  "  because 
he  outwitted  all  the  projectors  that  came  near  him." 

The  name  of  Tokenhouse  Yard  is  now  inseparable 
from  its  Auction  Mart.  But  the  "  Mart "  of  a  myriad 
newspaper  advertisements  dates  only  from  1864,  when 
it  superseded  the  older  auction-rooms  in  Bartholomew 
Lane,  hard  by.  It  is  a  place  of  suppressed  romance. 
In  the  many  small,  stuffy  auction-rooms,  into  which 
the  building  is  divided,  ambition  is  gratified,  territorial 
pride  is  humbled,  wealth  becomes  stable,  unthrift  is 
expiated,  and  still  the  hammer  falls. 

The  classic  figure  of  the  City  Auction  is  George 
Robins,  who  built  up  his  reputation  in  the  earlier 
rooms  in  Bartholomew  Lane,  opposite  the  Bank  of 
England  Rotunda.^  Robins,  who  died  in  1847,  was 
one  of  the  best-known  and  liked  men  of  his  time. 
He  brought  a  glad  eye  and  a  sumptuous  vocabulary 
to  the  rostrum.  In  describing  a  country-seat  he 
communicated  to  his  audience  a  kind  of  "Family 
Herald"  intoxication,  investing  a  sale  with  all  the 
glamour  of  a  '*  happy  ending,"  flattering  his  auditors' 
dreams  of  leisure,  wealth,  and  territorial  dignity,  and 
overcoming  any  easy  detection  of  his  arts  by  the 
'  And  in  the  Great  Piazza,  Covcnt  Garden. 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  97 

volume  of  his  placid  eloquence.  He  knew  every 
trick  of  his  calling.  Before  opening  the  business 
he  would  scatter  comfortable  remarks  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  had  invited  his  friends  to  a  reception, 
and  would  not  allow  them  to  be  shy.  To  those  who 
lingered  at  the  door,  in  winter,  he  would  say,  "  Do, 
my  good  friends,  come  inside  ;  you'll  be  much  warmer 
if  you  do."  In  summer  :  "  My  good  friends,  do  come 
inside  ;  you'll  find  it  cooler  here." 

Robins  did  not  deal  in  emphasis  and  gesture  ;  his 
lever  was  persuasion,  and  his  magic  lay  in  his  air  of 
being  a  benefactor.  He  seemed  to  come  with  gifts 
and  critical  opportunities  in  his  hands  asking  only  to 
be  trusted  ;  some  one's  dream  was  about  to  be  realized  ; 
some  man's  fortune  would  certainly  be  made  in  the 
next  ten  minutes.  He  was  so  seized  with  his  role,  and 
so  happy  in  performing  it,  that  he  seemed  only  to  wait 
until  the  scales  fell  from  the  eyes  of  his  hearers  and 
they  saw  an  earthly  paradise  within  grasp.  While 
bidders  hesitated  he  would  sit  down  in  an  arm-chair, 
playfully  wagging  his  legs  like  a  godfather  of  unap- 
peasable benevolence.  Other  arts  came  into  play. 
James  Grant  describes  these  in  his  "  Portraits  of  Public 
Characters."  If  the  bidding  began  to  flag  he  would 
heave  a  sigh,  and  ^'declare  with  the  utmost  conceivable 
gravity  of  countenance  that  in  the  whole  course  of  his 
professional  experience  he  never  met  with  anything  so 
discouraging.  Here  he  did  not  imply  a  criticism  of  his 
audience  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  would  sadly  surmise 
that  his  remarks  had  lacked  perspicacity,  and  that  his 
professional  ability  must  be  on  the  decline." 

"  If  this  had  not  the  effect  of  eliciting  higher  offers 
from  those  who  were  previously  aspirants  for  the 
property,  or  calling  new  competitors  into  the  field,  he 
assumes  an  unusually  serious  aspect,  says  he  cannot 


98  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

wait  longer,  and  that  whoever  bids  must  do  it  that 
instant,  otherwise  it  would  be  too  late  ;  and,  so  saying, 
he  causes  the  hammer  to  descend  slowly,  repeating  at 
the  same  time  the  words  '  Going,  going,  going.'  This 
third  *  Going '  is  uttered  in  so  peculiar  a  manner  that 
the  highest  bidder  in  many  cases  fancies,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  moment,  that  the  word  is  to  be  '  gone/ 
and  exultingly  exclaims  :  '  The  property  is  mine  ! ' 
This  is  exactly  what  Mr.  Robins  wishes.  He  then 
remarks  with  infinite  address  :  *  Ah,  my  friend ;  I 
don't  wonder  at  your  anxiety  to  possess  the  property  ; 
you  are  too  good  a  judge  not  to  know  what  an 
immense  bargain  it  would  be  at  your  offer.  No,  no, 
my  friend ;  that  would  never  do  ;  it  is  still  in  the 
market.' " 

Not  less  famous  than  his  eloquence  were  Robins*s 
printed  descriptions  of  the  properties  he  sold. 
Flowers  by  request  was  his  motto  when  he  put 
pen  to  paper.  It  is  said  that  his  advertisements,  high 
fiown  as  they  were,  never  led  to  a  repudiation  of  a 
purchase.  If  that  was  so,  one  may  dismiss  as  apoc- 
ryphal the  story  of  a  client  who,  without  seeing  a 
certain  property,  bought  it  under  the  spell  of  Robins's 
tongue,  only  to  find  that  the  **  navigable  meandering 
stream"  was  a  stagnant  canal,  and  the  "picturesque 
hanging  wood  "  a  gallows.  Robins  died  at  Brighton 
in  1847,  leaving  a  fortune  of  ;£  140,000. 

In  St.  Bartholomew's  Church,  now  displaced  by  the 
Sun  Fire  Office,  was  buried  Dr.  Johnson's  friend,  John 
Ellis.  Johnson  went  so  far  as  to  say,  "  It  is  wonderful, 
sir,  what  is  to  be  found  in  London  ;  the  most  literary 
conversation  that  I  ever  enjoyed  was  at  the  table  of 
Jack  Ellis,  a  money-scrivener  behind  the  Exchange, 
with  whom  I  at  one  period  used  to  dine,  generally 
once  a  week." 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  99 

Boswell  looked  up  Ellis  in  1790,  and  found  him 
pretty  hale  in  his  ninety-third  year.  A  few  months 
earlier  he  had  walked  to  Rotherhithe,  dined,  and  in  the 
evening  walked  back  to  his  house  in  Throgmorton 
Street.  Ellis  had  known  how  to  combine  business 
duties  with  literary  tasks,  having  written  certain  Hudi- 
brastic  translations,  and  a  version  of  Ovid's  epistles. 
The  scene  of  his  meetings  with  Johnson  was  probably 
the  "Cock"  in  Threadneedle  Street,  behind  the  Ex- 
change gate.  I  judge  that  much  reading  and  a  vast 
experience  of  City  men  and  manners  had  ripened  Ellis's 
philosophy  a  little  over-much,  for,  while  I  am  glad 
to  quote  I  do  not  profit  by  his  epigram  : — 

He's  wrecked  on  Scylla  who  Charybdis  shuns, 
Who  flies  disease  to  the  physician  runs  ; 
Fools  flying  vice,  on  vice  run  opposite, 
And  strife  who  shun,  seek  law  to  set  them  right. 

Then,  as  now,  life  was  difficult. 

Ellis  was  the  last  member  of  the  profession  of 
scriveners,  as  originally  organized.  It  is  curious  that 
two  such  learned  and  finished  poets  as  Milton  and 
Gray  should  have  been  sons  of  City  scriveners.  The 
City  ought  never  to  forget  that  the  author  of  the 
"  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard  "  was  born 
in  a  house  on  the  site  of  No.  41  Cornhill.  He  was 
the  only  child  out  of  twelve  who  survived  infancy,  and 
he  would  have  shared  the  fate  of  the  others  if  his 
mother  had  not  desperately  opened  one  of  his  veins 
with  her  scissors.  His  father,  Philip  Gray,  the  money- 
scrivener,  extravagant  and  eccentric,  had  a  full-length 
portrait  of  his  boy  painted  by  Jonathan  Richardson, 
the  elder,  the  most  accomplished  portrait-painter  of 
the  day ;  and  this  portrait  is  now  the  treasure  of  the 
Fitzwilliam  Museum  at  Cambridge. 


loo  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

The  Cornhill  fire  of  1748,  which  consumed  nearly 
a  hundred  houses,  destroyed  Gray's  birthplace.  The 
house  had  become  his  property,  and  he  rebuilt  it. 
The  misfortune  brought  the  poet  from  Cambridge, 
and  temporarily  shook  him  out  of  his  dreams  and 
studies.  He  was  then  nearing  the  end  of  his  seven 
years'  elaboration  of  the  "  Elegy."  The  house  was 
insured  for  ;^5oo,  and,  on  the  whole.  Gray  was  able 
to  be  amused  by  the  consolations,  in  the  form  of 
opera-tickets  and  suppers,  offered  him  by  his  London 
friends.  There  is  a  kind  of  providence  in  the  fact 
that  the  author  of  the  most  familiar  and  best-loved 
meditation  on  life  and  death  in  our  language  was 
born  in  the  City  of  London.  No  words  of  poetry 
are  more  certainly  lodged  in  the  memory  of  the  first 
man  you  meet  in  Cornhill  than  those  in  which  Gray 
assembles  and  suffuses  with  twilight  the  feelings 
wherein  we  do  not  differ  from  one  another.  That  call 
of  the  glimmering  landscape  and  evening  hearth,  that 
love  of  the  field  which  no  estrangement  can  wither, 
that  gulf  between  riches  and  peace  which  no  flattery 
can  bridge,  and  the  sure  convergence  of  all  our  paths 
into  precincts  beyond  anxiety  and  success :  these  are 
the  things  which,  though  they  were  not  new  or  rare, 
Gray  made  a  haunting  whisper  and  a  common  scrip. 

If  there  is  no  English  poem  better  known  than 
Gray's  *'  Elegy,  the  same  distinction  in  prose  must  be 
allowed  to  "  Robinson  Crusoe."  And  Cornhill  saw 
a  great  deal  of  Daniel  Defoe.  The  son  of  the  Fore 
Street  butcher  had  been  educated  for  the  ministry, 
when  he  suddenly  perceived  that  the  pulpit  was  not  his 
place.  "It  was  my  disaster,"  he  said,  "first  to  be  set 
apart  for,  and  then  to  be  set  apart  from,  that  sacred 
employ."  Not  the  Reverend  Daniel  Defoe,  but  "  Defoe 
the  Civet  Cat  Merchant,"  broke  upon  the  world.     In 


THE  CITY   MAN'S   CITY  loi 

Freeman's  Court,  where  long  afterwards  the  firm  of 
Dodson  and  Fogg  was  to  play  with  Mr.  Pickwick  as  a 
cat  with  a  mouse,  Defoe  set  up  as  newly  married  man 
and  as  a  hosier.  In  the  latter  character  he  exported 
stockings  to  Portugal,  of  all  places.  By  a  plentiful 
lack  of  attention  to  business,  and  a  strict  non-observ- 
ance of  the  shopkeeping  maxims  which  he  after- 
wards formulated  in  his  "Compleat  Tradesman,"  he 
fell  into  difficulties,  and  in  1692  he  was  figuring  in 
Bristol  as  "  the  Sunday  gentleman  "  who  was  kept 
indoors  on  every  other  day  of  the  week  by  fear  of 
pursuing  bailiffs.  But  in  the  end  he  was  able  to  walk 
in  Cornhill  when  he  pleased. 

Nearly  a  century  after  Defoe  failed  in  business  in 
Freeman's  Court  the  banking-house  of  Welch,  Rogers, 
Olding,  Rogers  and  Rogers  stood  here  at  No.  3 ;  and 
into  this  bank  entered  Samuel  Rogers,  the  banker- 
poet,  "with  no  willing  heart,  but  with  a  dogged 
determination  to  master  his  business  in  the  Cit}^,  and 
to  write  poetry  at  Stoke  Newington."  Relieved  at  last 
from  business  cares,  but  drawing  a  magnificent  income 
from  the  bank,  Rogers  was  able  to  give  himself  to 
society,  literature,  brilliant  friendships,  and  the  culti- 
vation of  that  mordant  wit  of  which  we  have  so  many 
records. 

In  181 1  the  firm  removed  to  Clement's  Lane,  Lom- 
bard Street,  close  by  ;  and  it  was  here  that  a  strange 
calamity  befell.  The  poet  Gray's  peace  had  been  dis- 
turbed by  a  great  fire,  the  banker-poet's  was  ruffled  by 
a  great  robbery.  On  Sunday,  24  November,  1844, 
thieves  broke  into  the  bank,  of  which  Rogers  was 
now  the  head,  and  made  an  enormous  haul  of  bank- 
notes. They  abstracted  from  the  safe  no  fewer 
than  36,000  one-pound  notes,  ;£i,200  in  gold,  and 
securities   which    brought    the    total    theft    to   about 


102  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

;^5o,ooo.  The  City  was  aghast,  the  West  End  agog, 
and  it  occurred  to  Rogers  that  it  might  amuse  him  in 
his  declining  years  to  see  how  little  he  could  live  on  if 
the  worst  came  to  the  worst.  But  the  fates  were  kind ; 
the  thieves  were  unable  to  use  the  stolen  paper,  and  the 
Bank  of  England  repaid  to  Rogers  &  Co.  the  sum  of 
;£40,7io,  on  a  guarantee  of  indemnity.  A  bright  side 
to  the  affair  was  revealed  in  the  instant  and  practical 
sympathy  which  Rogers  received  from  his  friends. 
Lord  Lansdowne  immediately  offered  to  transfer  to 
Rogers's  bank  a  balance  of  some  thousands  of  pounds. 

Freeman's  Court  cannot  be  found  to-day.  It  was 
on  the  north  side  of  Cornhill,  close  to  the  Exchange, 
and  the  entrance  to  it  must  have  been  a  few  yards 
east  of  the  spot  on  which  stands  the  statue  of  Rowland 
Hill.  Dickens  describes  Dodson  and  Fogg's  clerks  as 
*^  catching  about  as  favourable  glimpses  of  Heaven's 
light  and  Heaven's  sun,  in  the  course  of  their  daily 
labours,  as  a  man  might  hope  to  do  were  he  placed  at 
the  bottom  of  a  reasonably  deep  well." 

It  was  after  Mr.  Pickwick's  departure,  or  rather  after 
his  forcible  removal  by  Sam  Weller  to  the  air  and  sun- 
light of  Cornhill,  that  Mr.  Pickwick  benignantly  ad- 
mitted that  he  had  been  "  rather  ruffled,"  and  inquired 
where  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water  warm  might 
be  had  in  the  City.  And  it  is  at  this  point  that 
Dickens  records  in  a  single  world-famous  sentence 
that  Mr.  Welter's  knoivledge  of  London  was  extensive  and 
peculiar. 

Dickens  and  Thackeray  seem  never  to  be  far  from 
each  other,  and  it  was  at  No.  65  Cornhill,  opposite  the 
Church  of  St.  Peter,  whose  front  is  now  masked  by 
a  silversmith's  shop,  that  Thackeray  had  cordial  and 
profitable  dealings  with  the  firm  of  Smith,  Elder.  It 
was  here  that  the  "  Cornhill  Magazine  "  was  founded 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  103 

and  christened  in  January,  i860.  "Our  Store-house 
being  in  Cornhill,"  he  wrote,  "we  date  and  name  our 
Magazine  from  its  place  of  publication."  He  had 
himself  suggested  the  title,  remarking,  "  It  has  a  sound 
of  jollity  and  abundance  about  it."  Thus  was  opened 
a  conduit  for  the  thoughts  and  creations  of  many  of 
the  greatest  Victorian  writers. 

To  Cornhill  belongs,  by  association,  one  of  the 
most  moving  and  monitory  tales  in  the  annals  of 
forgery.  In  it  William  Wynne,  engraver  to  George  III, 
joined  a  Mr.  Bryer  in  starting  a  print-shop.  Although 
their  trade  was  large,  the  enterprise  ended  in  bank- 
ruptcy, and  this  misfortune  was  the  first  link  in  a 
chain  of  events  that  brought  a  man  of  rare  accom- 
plishment and  graceful  character  to  the  gallows.  On 
April  I,  1783,  Ryland  presented  himself  at  Brensom 
&  Co.'s  bank  and  uttered  a  forged  bill  for  an 
amount  which  is  variously  stated.  Some  accounts 
place  it  at  several  thousand  pounds.  His  self-com- 
mand at  this  moment,  and  at  all  other  times,  seems  to 
have  been  extraordinary.  Henry  Angelo  relates  that 
the  cashier  examined  the  bill  carefully,  and  referred 
to  the  ledger ;  then,  observing  the  date,  said,  "  Here 
is  a  mistake,  sir ;  the  bond,  as  entered,  does  not 
become  due  till  to-morrow."  Ryland  coolly  asked  to 
be  shown  the  book,  and  made  answer  :  "So  I  per- 
ceive— there  must  be  an  error  in  your  entry  of  one 
day,"  and,  without  a  tremor,  he  offered  to  leave  the 
bond.  Disarmed  by  his  manner,  the  cashier  imagined 
that  there  was  really  an  error  in  the  ledger,  and  paid 
over  the  amount  with  apologies,  and  Ryland  left  with 
the  money.  Next  day  the  true  bill  was  presented, 
and  all  was  discovered.  In  every  London  newspaper 
appeared  a  notice  offering  a  reward  of  ;^5oo  for  the 
apprehension  of    William   Wynne    Ryland,   and   the 


I04  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

walls  displayed  placards  which  augmented  the  hue 
and  cry. 

The  hunted  man  first  found  a  hiding-place  in  the 
Minories,  where  his  restless  nature — perhaps  the 
strange  claustrophobia  of  guilt — nearly  led  to  his 
capture.  "  Though  cautioned  by  his  friends,"  says 
Angelo,  **  to  remain  in  his  hiding-place,  yet,  after  a 
few  days'  confinement,  he  could  not  resist  his  desire 
to  take  a  walk,  after  dusk,  though  he  knew  of  the 
placards  and  the  reward  offered.  Thus  determined, 
he  put  on  a  seaman's  dreadnought,  and  otherwise  dis- 
guised set  off  and  wandered  about  for  a  considerable 
time,  when,  returning  across  Little  Tower  Hill,  a  man 
eyed  him  attentively,  passed  and  repassed  him,  and, 
turning  short  round,  exclaimed,  *  So,  you  are  the 
very  man  I  am  seeking  1 '  Ryland,  betraying  not  the 
least  emotion,  stopped  short,  faced  him,  and  returned, 
*  Perhaps  you  are  mistaken  in  your  man — I  do  not 
know  you  I '  The  stranger  immediately  apologized, 
owned  his  mistake,  wished  the  refugee  good-night,  and 
then  they  departed."  Alarmed  by  this  incident, 
Ryland  buried  himself  in  Stepney.  It  was  in  Step- 
ney that  he  was  caught,  and  then,  pitifully  enough, 
his  fate  was  sealed  by  an  unconscious  imprudence  on 
the  part  of  his  wife,  who  was  his  companion  in  con- 
cealment. She  took  one  of  her  husband's  shoes  to 
a  cobbler  to  be  mended.  The  name  **  Ryland "  was 
inside  it,  and  the  cobbler  to  get  the  reward  gave  tidings 
to  the  officers  on  his  track.  When  they  arrived  it  was 
to  find  the  unhappy  man  attempting  suicide  with  a 
razor. 

On  July  20  the  engraver  stood  at  the  bar  of  the 
Old  Bailey.  Even  there  it  seemed  that  he  had  a 
chance  of  escape  ;  the  forgery  was  so  wonderful  that 
it  was  difficult  to  distinguish   the  real  bill  from  the 


THE   CITY   MAN'S  CITY  105 

false.  Thirty  and  more  signatures  covering  the  true 
bill  had  been  copied  by  the  artist  with  an  exactness 
which  defied  detection.  Yet  Ryland  was  lost  when 
Mr.  Whatman,  a  Maidstone  paper-maker,  stepped  into 
the  witness-box.  Mr.  Whatman  said  that  the  paper 
of  the  forged  bill  was  of  his  manufacture.  It  turned 
out  that  the  bill  bore  a  date  earlier  than  that  on  which 
the  paper  was  proved  to  have  been  made.  On  this 
conclusive  evidence  Ryland  was  found  guilty,  and 
sentenced  to  death. 

Ryland  begged  for  a  respite  in  order  that  he  might 
complete  in  his  cell  a  very  fine  plate  on  which  he 
was  engaged,  and  which  he  desired  to  leave  to  his 
wife  as  a  contribution  to  the  support  of  herself  and 
his  children.  This  remarkable  request  was  granted, 
and  day  by  day,  in  Newgate,  Angelica  Kauffman's 
picture  of  Queen  Eleanor  sucking  the  poison  from 
the  arm  of  her  husband  was  reproduced.  At  last 
the  plate  was  finished,  and  a  proof  was  passed  by 
Ryland.  He  said  that  he  was  now  ready  to  die. 
Meanwhile  the  King  had  been  approached  with  a 
view  to  saving  his  life,  but  George  the  Third  could 
not  be  influenced  by  any  statement  of  Ryland's 
valuable  abilities.  He  replied — with  some  reason,  it 
must  be  admitted — that  "a  man  with  such  ample 
means  of  providing  for  his  wants  could  not  reason- 
ably plead  necessity  as  an  excuse  for  his  crime."  One 
last  indulgence  the  engraver's  position  did  obtain  for 
him  :  a  coach  to  Tyburn.  A  thunderstorm  delayed 
the  execution,  which  was  the  last  but  one  ever  carried 
out  at  that  place. 

Cornhill  ends  at  Gracechurch  Street,  whence  Lead- 
enhall  Street  continues  the  eastward  artery.  Here 
banking  and  insurance  give  place  to  shipping  and 
merchandise,  and  the  region  adumbrates  the  stupen- 


io6  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

dous  ingoings  and  outgoings  of  the  Port  of  London. 
On  the  left  of  the  street  is  the  church  of  St.  Mary 
Undershaft ;  and  in  it  is  the  tomb  of  the  father  of  all 
them  who  write  about  London.  For  there  John  Stow 
sits,  London's  "grandsire  cut  (literally)  in  alabaster," 
plying  a  quill  with  which  he  seems  to  be  transcribing 
the  city's  story  as  it  unfolds  from  age  to  age.  We 
know  him  first  as  a  tailor  in  Cornhill,  then  as  a  poor 
perambulating  student  of  London,  who  was  seen  in 
every  church  and  churchyard  and  muniment-room. 
His  passion  for  London's  history  consumed  his  sub- 
stance and  his  health.  Ben  Jonson,  walking  with 
him  once  in  the  City,  was  amused  by  hearing  him  ask 
two  beggars  "what  they  would  have  to  take  him 
into  their  order."  Had  Jonson  given  us  one  such 
anecdote  about  Shakespeare  we  should  have  been 
grateful ;  but  the  poet  of  Bankside  eludes  us,  while 
the  antiquary  of  Cornhill,  who  must  surely  have  seen 
Shakespeare  often,  is  a  man  whose  hand  we  can  shake. 
He  is  described  as  being  tall  and  lean,  with  eyes 
"  small  and  chrystaline,"  a  face  pleasant  and  open,  and 
in  his  disposition  "very  mild  and  courteous  to  any 
that  required  his  instructions."  In  old  age  his  feet 
became  painful,  and  he  remarked,  says  Strype,  how 
"his  affliction  lay  in  that  part  that  formerly  he  had 
made  so  much  use  of  in  walking  many  a  mile 
to  search  after  antiquities."  He  was  no  romancer, 
he  liked  to  shatter  a  myth.  He  showed  that  the 
"  dagger  "  in  the  City  arms  was  the  cross  and  sword 
of  St.  Paul,  and  not,  as  tradition  had  it,  the  weapon 
with  which  Walworth  stabbed  Wat  Tyler  in  the  neck. 
But  the  City  whose  annals  Stow  gathered  and  cor- 
rected, and  whose  majesty  he  displayed,  felt  little 
gratitude  to  the  old  tramping  tailor.  There  is  not, 
I  suppose,  a   literary   document   more   charged  with 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  107 

unconscious  irony  than  the  one  which  records  the 
endowment  of  research  in  the  case  of  John  Stow. 
It  takes  the  form  of  a  Hcence  to  beg. 

Two  landmarks  of  Cornhill  cannot  be  passed  over. 
The  first  is  the  Pump  at  the  corner  of  the  Royal 
Exchange.  As  late  as  1875  a  City  man  wrote  :  "  I 
remember  the  time  when  the  Cornhill  Pump  was 
besieged  by  quite  a  little  crowd  of  persons  with  cans, 
bottles,  etc.,  to  get  some  pure  spring  water."  The 
Pump  is  now  merely  a  monument ;  it  does  not  even 
feed  its  own  trough,  which  is  supplied  with  water 
from  the  mains.  The  inscriptions  on  the  iron  case 
will  bear  study.     One  of  them  reads  : — 

*'  On  this  spot  a  well  was  made,  and  a  House  of 
Correction  built  thereon  by  Henry  Wallis,  Mayor 
of  London,  in  the  year  1282." 

Another  : — 

^*  The  well  was  discovered,  and  enlarged,  and  this 
Pump  erected  in  the  year  1799,  by  the  contributions 
of  the  Bank  of  England,  the  East  India  Company,  the 
neighbouring  Fire  Offices,  together  with  the  Bankers 
and  Traders  of  the  Ward  of  Cornhill." 

The  most  constant  companion  of  the  Cornhill  Pump 
in  the  last  hundred  years  has  been  the  ^^  little  Green 
Shop"  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street — Birch's — 
now  Ring  &  Brymer's,  but  always  ''  Birch's."  Its 
delicacies  have  been  the  manna  of  the  City  these  two 
hundred  years.  Lucas  Birch  was  in  business  in  this 
shop  early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  his  son, 
Samuel  Birch,  born  in  1757,  succeeded  to  the  busi- 
ness. Like  Sir  William  Gilbert's  gentle  pieman,  who 
varied  his  operations  with  roller  and  paste  by  writing 
^^  those  lovely  cracker  mottoes,"  Mr. ''  Patty- Pan"  Birch 
was  no  mean  author  and  orator.  He  cultivated  his 
mind  in  the  debates  held  at  the  King's  Arras  Tavern, 


iq8  a   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

in  Cornhill,  became  a  force  in  politics,  and  rose  to  be 
Lord  Mayor  in  the  year  of  Waterloo.  His  activities 
were  so  various  that  in  a  skit  of  the  day  a  bewildered 
French  visitor  was  represented  as  having  seen  him  at 
the  head  of  a  militia  regiment,  read  his  poems,  seen 
his  plays  at  Drury  Lane,  until — in  Theodore  Hook's 
verses — 

Guildhall  at  length  in  sight  appears, 

An  orator  is  hailed  with  cheers  ; 

"  Zat  orator — vat  is  hees  name  ? " 

"Birch,  the  pastry-cook — the  very  same." 

No  part  of  the  City  is  more  characteristic,  or  less 
known  to  the  average  Londoner,  than  the  quarter  of 
commercial  lanes  known  as  Rood,  Philpot,  Mincing, 
and  Mark.  The  greatest  of  these  is  Mincing.  All 
connect  Eastcheap  with  Fenchurch  Street.  They  are 
connected  with  each  other  by  long  dark  corridors 
running  through  deep  blocks  of  offices  and  sample- 
rooms.  These  corridors  are  freely  used  as  short  cuts, 
and  a  Mincing  Lane  youth  sufficiently  expert  in  the 
local  topography  finds  his  way  from  Mark  Lane  to 
Liverpool  Street  almost  without  leaving  cover.  The 
City  is  a  honeycomb,  and  these  curious  journeys  can 
be  performed. 

The  gentlemen  who  stand  near  the  Mincing  Lane 
Sale  Rooms  seem  to  make  a  thousand  a  year  by  stroll- 
ing about  in  a  particular  way.  One  sees,  of  course, 
that  the  way  is  everything.  The  Mincing  Lane  man 
carries  in  one  hand  a  bright  square  tin,  containing  a 
sample  of  tea.  Where  he  is  taking  it,  what  he  pro- 
poses to  do  with  it,  is  not  known.  He  has  never  been 
seen  to  open  this  tin,  but  he  carries  it  up  and  down 
the  Lane  in  a  manner  so  obviously  corrc^^c,  prescribed, 
and  Laney,  that  you  do  not  grudge  him  his  house  at 
Sutton.    He  holds  it  from  the  top,  at  the  full  length  of 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  109 

his  left  arm,  which  would  slope  back  easily  towards  his 
coat-tails,  if  he  wore  coat-tails,  but  he  wears  a  neat 
black  jacket,  and  finds  this  garment  compatible  with 
a  silk  hat,  tilted  well  back  on  his  head.  His  walk  is 
inimitable  (even  he  cannot  reproduce  it  elsewhere), 
but  a  description  of  its  slow  lilt  would  lead  me  too  far 
into  post-impressionism.  It  is  believed  to  account  for 
the  rapt  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  local  apple- 
women. 

The  old  East  London  House,  now  replaced  by  a 
pile  of  offices,  gave  great  distinction  to  Leadenhall 
Street,  though  Ned  Ward  speaks  of  it  saucily  as 
"belonging  to  the  East  India  Company,  which  are 
a  corporation  of  men  with  long  heads  and  deep  pur- 
poses." Much  of  the  interior  was  open  to  public  in- 
spection, and  was  fitted  with  Hindu  images,  trophies, 
Indian  standards  and  weapons,  state  howdahs,  Chinese 
and  Indian  paintings,  and  portraits  of  the  early  makers 
of  British  India.  Here,  in  the  Accountant-General's 
office,  Charles  Lamb  sat  at  his  desk  for  thirty-three 
years. 

In  this  stately  and  exclusive  establishment  the 
destinies  of  India  and  the  careers  of  many  Englishmen 
were  shaped  during  250  years.  Yet  the  East  India 
House  could  be  taken  by  storm.  Joseph  Brasbridge,  the 
Fleet  Street  silversmith,  whose  writings  I  have  quoted 
elsewhere,  relates  how  a  Mr.  Jones,  a  clergyman,  with 
a  son  to  put  out  in  the  world,  came  with  him  to 
London  and,  as  it  happened,  put  up  at  the  "  Black 
Bull"  in  Leadenhall  Street.  Seeing  a  throng  of  car- 
riages, he  asked  its  meaning,  and  was  told  that  a  meet- 
ing of  the  East  India  directors  was  sitting.  Whereupon 
he  returned  to  his  inn,  and  wrote  this  letter  : — 

"  Gentlemen, — I  have  a  parcel  of  fine  boys,  but  not 
much  cash  to  provide  for  them.     I  had  intended  my 


no  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

eldest  son  for  the  Church,  but  I  find  he  is  more  likely 
to  kick  a  church  down  than  to  support  it.  I  sent  him 
to  the  University,  but  he  could  not  submit  himself  to 
the  college  rules  ;  and,  on  being  reproved  by  his  tutors, 
he  took  it  up  in  the  light  of  an  affair  of  honour,  and 
threatened  to  call  them  to  account  for  it.  All  my  plans 
for  his  welfare  being  thus  disconcerted,  I  asked  him  if 
he  had  formed  any  for  himself ;  he  replied  he  meant 
to  go  to  India.  I  then  inquired  if  he  had  any  interest, 
at  which  question  he  looked  somewhat  foolish,  and 
replied  in  the  negative.  Now,  Gentlemen,  I  know  no 
more  of  you  than  you  do  of  me.  I  therefore  may 
appear  to  you  not  much  wiser  than  my  son.  I  can 
only  say  that  he  is  of  Welsh  extraction  for  many 
generations,  and,  as  my  first-born,  I  flatter  myself 
has  not  degenerated.  He  is  six  feet  high,  of  an  athletic 
make,  and  bold  and  intrepid  as  a  lion.  If  you  like 
to  see  him  I  will  equip  him  as  a  gentleman,  and — 
I  am.  Gentlemen,  etc." 

This  letter  so  impressed  the  board  that  the  young 
man  was  sent  for,  and  appointed  a  cadet.  It  will  be 
expected  by  the  reader  that  I  am  now  about  to  disclose 
a  name  deeply  graven  in  the  annals  of  India.  But 
no — the  young  giant  threw  up  empire-making,  and 
returned  to  a  village  pulpit. 

Leadenhall  Street  brings  one  to  the  Beersheba  of 
most  Londoners — Aldgate  Pump.  Hereby,  in  the 
Minories,  I  once  had  an  interesting  experience.  When 
its  little  church  of  Holy  Trinity  was  closed,  much  w^as 
written  about  its  remarkable  relic,  a  human  head.  The 
caretaker,  a  foreman  in  a  neighbouring  factory,  good- 
naturedly  took  me  to  the  church,  and  I  remember  the 
strange  transition  from  the  noisy  granite  streets  of  that 
warehouse  and  workroom  region,  with  its  thundering 
drays  and  threatening  cranes,  into  the  quiet  little  build- 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  iii 

ing,  with  its  amazingly  high  pulpit  and  oaken  pews 
— in  one  of  which  Sir  Isaac  Newton  is  believed  to  have 
worshipped. 

The  caretaker  soon  went  to  a  cupboard  and  brought 
me  forth  the  head.  It  was  in  a  specially  constructed 
glass  box — this  head  of  the  father  of  Lady  Jane  Grey. 
His  ?  Well,  that  is  the  story,  and  it  has  the  support 
of  competent  students.  Henry  Grey,  Duke  of  Suffolk, 
was  beheaded  on  Tower  Hill  (close  to  the  Minories), 
on  23  February,  1554,  eleven  days  after  the  execution 
of  his  illustrious  daughter.  There  is  the  inevitable 
tradition  that  the  executioner  was  bribed  to  bring  the 
head  secretly  to  Holy  Trinity  Church  and  place  it  in 
the  vault,  where  it  was  found  about  fifty  years  ago. 
Lord  De  Ros,  a  careful  inquirer,  accepted  the  story, 
and  the  late  Mr.  George  Scharf,  the  curator  of  our 
national  portraits,  declared  that  the  features  agree  with 
the  best-known  portrait  of  Henry  Grey.  Others  think 
this  resemblance  is  fanciful.  As  to  the  presence  of  the 
head  in  the  church,  it  is  enough  to  remember  that 
heads  were  frequently  recovered  from  the  scaffold. 
Sir  Thomas  More's  was  secured  by  Margaret  Roper, 
and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  by  Lady  Raleigh.  Suffolk's 
head  may  have  been  recovered,  too,  and  conveyed  to 
the  Minories,  where  the  Earl's  brothers  resided.  And 
it  is  known  that  Lady  Grey  took  an  interest  in  the 
church  long  after  her  husband's  death.  The  remark- 
able state  of  preservation  in  which  the  relic  remains  is 
explained  by  supposing  that  the  head  was  left  undis- 
turbed in  the  box  of  oak  sawdust  into  which  it  would 
fall  on  the  scaffold.  The  interesting  theory  that  this 
is  the  head  of  the  father  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  was  dis- 
cussed at  length  in  the  ''Times"  in  1879,  and  in 
*'  Notes  and  Queries "  in  1885.  The  then  vicar  of 
Holy  Trinity  stated  that  he  had  searched  the  registers 


112  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

from  beginning  to  end,  but  could  find  no  mention  of 
the  burial  of  a  beheaded  person  in  the  church.  But 
as  the  existing  registers  begin  in  1566,  and  Suffolk  was 
executed  in  1554,  this  does  not  weaken  the  traditional 
story. 

We  are  at  Aldgate  Pump,  and  before  it  fades  the 
immense  London  of  "those  that  encamp  toward  the 
east."  Many  Londoners  have  seen,  once  in  a  way, 
the  London  Hospital  and  the  People's  Palace,  both  of 
which  institutions  stand  on  the  great  four-mile  highway 
which  connects  Aldgate  with  Stratford,  and  distributes 
the  human  tide  into  the  jerry-built  fastnesses  and 
creeping  fogs  of  Essex.  But  these  do  not  know  East 
London.  They  have  not  strolled  among  the  beetling 
warehouses  and  leafy  churchyards  of  Wapping  and 
Shadwell,  or  lounged  on  the  river  terrace  by  Blackwall 
Station,  or  lost  themselves  among  the  walls  and  draw- 
bridges of  the  docks,  where  the  masts  fill  the  sky  like  a 
redwood  forest. 

Sir  Walter  Besant  was  right  when  he  said  that  to 
observe  the  true  life  of  an  East  London  neighbourhood 
you  must  adopt  Richard  Jefferies'  maxim  for  seeing 
the  life  of  wild  nature — you  must  stand  still  and  stand 
long.  If  you  will  retire  into  a  doorway  in  a  nameless 
by-way  of  Bethnal  Green,  and  stand  one  whole  hour 
watching  those  who  come  and  go,  you  will — unnoticed 
yourself — see  into  the  heart  of  things.  To  know  in 
some  true  way  this  vast  region,  which  is  equal  in  size 
to  St.  Petersburg  or  Philadelphia,  is  to  wonder  at  its 
order,  its  household  dignities,  its  social  keeping,  its 
magnetic  cheerfulness,  its  immense  honest  energy  that 
makes  the  best  of  destiny. 

Of  all  East  London  neighbourhoods  none  is  more 
interesting  than  Spitalfields,  which  lies  north  of  the 
Whitechapel  Road.     It  may  best  be  entered  by  Brush- 


BEYOND    IT    FADES   THE    IMMENSE   LONDON    OF 
THE    EAST  "       (p.   112) 


BEYOND   ALDGATE    PUMP 

"those   that   ENCAMl'   TOWARDS 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  113 

field  Street,  in  Norton  Folgate.  Here  you  see  an 
intelligible  goal  in  the  huge  grey  mass  of  Christ 
Church,  Spitalfields.  Nicholas  Hawksmoor  reared 
its  tower  one  hundred  and  sixty  years  ago,  and  im- 
prisoned the  shadows  of  the  eighteenth  century  in  its 
enormous  portico.  Everywhere  you  perceive  that  new 
wine  has  been  poured  into  old  bottles.  In  Crispin 
Street,  in  Spital  Square,  in  Elder  Street,  in  Fournier 
Street,  in  Wilkes  Street,  you  may  fancy  that  a  dying 
glory  smiles  on  the  stately  Georgian  houses,  with  red 
walls,  flat  windows,  and  carved  lintels.  Fine  must 
have  been  the  lustrings  and  paduasoys,  heavy  the 
brocades,  that  brought  Spitalfields  its  wealth  and 
cheerfulness  when  the  bells  of  Christ  Church  showered 
down  the  notes  of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  and  ^'  The 
Lass  of  Richmond  Hill "  on  the  red  roofs  of  the 
suburb.  Through  all  the  Georgian  era  the  twelve 
bells  made  music  in  the  sky.  Then,  one  midnight, 
the  lightning  struck  the  belfry,  and  the  bells  were 
heard  crashing  to  the  ground  amid  claps  of  thunder. 
Many  a  weaver  must  have  taken  their  fall  for  an  omen, 
and  the  omen  has  fulfilled  itself.  Not  only  the  chimes 
have  gone  ;  the  clack  of  the  loom  is  now  little  heard 
in  Spitalfields.  No  more  does  the  weaver's  song, 
loved  by  Falstaff,  fl5at  down  from  the  queer  old 
latticed  windows  that  show  you  in  what  rooms  the 
warp  and  weft  danced  themselves  into  beauty. 

Two  kinds  of  houses  in  Spitalfields  recall  the 
weaving  days.  First  there  are  these  tall  old  houses 
dating  from  Queen  Anne  and  the  Georges,  in  which 
the  master  weavers  lived,  or  in  which  at  a  later  period 
they  only  gave  out  work.  I  can  see  Daniel  Defoe 
wandering  among  them  when  they  were  new,  with 
his  keen  eye  for  prosperity.  Secondly,  there  is  the 
humbler  home  of  the  working  weaver,  usually  small, 


114  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

but  sometimes  rising  to  three  stories.  It  shows  a  rich 
albeit  much-blackened  brick,  and  its  unfailing  feature 
is  its  upper  large  window,  or  range  of  windows,  filled 
with  small  panes  of  glass.  You  cannot  pass  such  a 
house  without  a  sense  of  desolation.  It  is  true  that 
other  workers  have  poured  into  them  (I  have  seen  a 
cobbler's  bald  head  and  flying  hammer  where  I  hoped 
for  a  weaver's  paraphernalia),  but  the  light  of  poetry 
has  faded  from  the  square  panes  under  the  eaves. 
Many  weaver's  houses  are  a  hundred  years  old,  some 
are  a  hundred  and  fifty.  On  one  in  Brick  Lane  I 
remarked  the  date  1723.  It  is  not  surprising  that  time 
bears  these  workshops  away  but  slowly,  when  it  is 
remembered  that  eighty  years  ago  there  were  20,000 
looms  in  Spitalfields,  employing  50,000  people,  and  that 
up  to  i860  the  Spitalfields  weavers  were  still  a  great 
though  declining  community. 

Spitalfields  is  but  one  of  many  East  End  regions 
in  which  it  is  good  to  have  wandered.  You  catch 
suggestions  of  the  old  maritime  order  in  Wapping 
and  Shadwell  and  Limehouse.  Wapping  Old  Stairs, 
of  immortal  memory,  may  still  be  found,  though  its 
boat-bustle  is  no  more.  In  Poplar's  High  Street 
are  private  schools  of  navigation,  and  in  all  that 
region  there  is  tar  and  ropes  and  the  mention  of 
distant  ports.  The  sky  at  the  end  of  a  slum  is  crossed 
by  the  gleaming  spars  and  cordage  of  a  sailing  ship, 
or  from  a  great  bowsprit  a  carven  goddess  stares 
down  upon  the  stones,  as  if  looking  for  the  swoon 
of  green  water. 

Far  away — beyond  Shadwell,  Limehouse,  and 
Poplar — is  a  London  which  is  fain  to  call  itself 
"  London-over-the-Border,"  where  Canning  Town 
and  Silvertown,  and  Tidal  Basin  and  Gallions 
fade  along  the  flats  to  North  Woolwich. 


THE   CITY   MAN'S   CITY  115 

The  Isle  of  Dogs,  Plaistow,  Manor  Park,  growing 
Ilford  ;  and  West  Ham,  that  monster  crouching  in 
the  mist ! 

London  becoming  Essex,  and  Essex  becoming 
London,  where  the  great  ships  ride  high  between  the 
farms  ! 

World  of  London  without  end  !  And,  since  with- 
out appreciable  end,  without  the  charm  of  outskirts 
— let  us  confess  it.  London  has  an  immense  irregu- 
lar selvage,  still  delightful  in  patches,  but  fraying  away 
until  it  ceases  to  be  organic,  or  suggestive  of  the  town. 
True  outskirts  are  visibly  related  to  the  body  that  wears 
them  ;  they  afford  views  of  the  centre,  and  offer  an 
accessibly  brighter  sunshine  and  a  cleaner  rain.  When 
Londoners  stand  long  before  the  Dutch  pictures  in  the 
National  Gallery,  I  think  that  they  are  fascinated  by 
the  Dutchmen's  towns  seen  across  dunes  or  drying- 
grounds.  Ruysdael's  "  Haarlem"  is  such  a  picture.  This 
is  the  charm,  too — no  small  part  of  it — of  Rembrandt's 
etching,  the  "  Three  Trees,"  where  the  rainstorm,  still 
in  the  outskirts,  is  moving  grandly  to  the  town,  and  it 
is  the  whole  charm  of  his  little  "  Amsterdam  "  in  which 
we  see  the  city  from  the  marshes  of  the  Amstel,  or  the 
Ij,  fretting  the  sky  with  mast  and  boat-shed,  windmill 
and  tower.  In  effect  we  have  abolished  London's 
outskirts,  for  when  we  reach  them  we  have  ceased  to 
look  back.  Compensation  we  have :  poets  and  painters 
alike  have  become  aware  of  the  beauty  of  the  inner 
streets  and  the  imprisoned  fogs.  To  these,  then,  let 
us  return. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE   HOUSE-MOVING  OF  THE  GODS 

The  Euston  Statuary  Yards—Plastic  Piccadilly—"  Our  Old  Friend, 
the  Pelican  "—Joseph  Wilton— A  Window  in  Charlotte  Street— Edward 
Fitzgerald — John  Constable — Cockney  Ladle — Willan's  Farm— The 
Coming  of  the  Omnibus — The  "  Green  Man  " — The  Spread  of  London 
—The  Parent  of  the  Motor-car— The  Inspector  of  Fishes— The  Birth 
of  Camden  Town — Boy  Boz — Warren  Street — Cookery  and  Culture — 
"  The  Village  Politicians  "— "  The  March  to  Finchley  "—A  Nursery 
of  Pugilists — The  Tottenham  Court  Road— Bozier's  Court — Hanway 
Street— A  Great  Corner—*'  I  too  am  sometimes  unhappy  " 

A  GREY  nimbus  of  sentiment  hovers  over  that 
fag-end  of  the  Euston  Road  where  the  statuary 
yards  are  always  a-cold,  and  a  warm  air  creeps 
for  ever  out  of  Portland  Road  Station.  The  note 
of  the  neighbourhood  is  in  the  statuary  yards,  with 
their  queer  mixture  of  objects  which  represent  the 
dead  man  and  the  undying  myth.  Here  is  the  eagle 
for  the  garden-gate,  and  the  dove  for  the  tomb. 
Here  Venus  rises  from  composition  foam,  and 
Mercury — Boy  Messenger  of  the  gods — implores 
release  from  modern  epitaphs.  Cold  and  grotesque 
as  they  are,  these  stone-yards  detain  the  eye  by 
their  display  of  forms  and  ideals  that  have  de- 
scended from  nature  to  Greece,  and  from  the 
Athenian  chisel  to  the  Euston  mould.  Not  all  is 
lost    that   Myron    carved    or    Phidias  breathed ;  the 

Il6 


THE  HOUSE-MOVING  OF  THE   GODS       117 

impoverished  spirit  has  informed  the  debased  pro- 
cess, and  Hebe  is  a  Hebe  of  sorts.  There  is  yet  a 
residuum,  ^*  a  shadow  of  a  magnitude."  I  suspect  that 
Colonel  Newcome  turned  a  more  intelligent  eye  on 
these  images  in  the  New  Road  than  ever  he  did  on 
Clive's  drawings  or  the  masterpieces  of  Gandish.  He 
must  have  seen  them  on  his  way  from  his  gaunt 
house  in  Fitzroy  Square  for  his  morning  walk  in 
Regent's  Park,  and  it  may  be  that  he  looked  on  them 
with  a  sadder  gaze  than  usual  on  the  morning  when 
the  "  Post "  contained  the  advertisement  of  the  sale  of 
his  three  horses,  '*  the  property  of  an  officer  returning 
to  India." 

All  this  plastic  world  came  from  Piccadilly  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ago.  There,  the  mansions  facing 
the  Green  Park  are  built  on  the  sites  of  the  statuary 
yards  and  shops  which  supplied  the  Walpolian  age 
with  garden  gods  and  nymphs.  Probably  the  oldest 
of  these  sculpture  yards  was  Van  Nost's,  the  site  of 
which  is  now  occupied  by  No.  105  Piccadilly.  His 
business  was  purchased  by  Sir  Henry  Cheere,  who, 
though  he  had  enough  talent  to  obtain  commissions 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  nevertheless  turned  out  a 
great  deal  of  cheap-jack  work  from  his  "despicable 
manufactory,"  as  John  Thomas  Smith  calls  it,  in 
Piccadilly. 

Smith  relates  that  Joseph  Nollekens  took  him  one 
day,  when  he  was  a  boy,  to  visit  his  friend,  Mrs. 
Haycock,  an  aged  lady  who  lived  near  Hampstead 
Heath.  '*  Her  evergreens  were  cut  into  the  shapes 
of  various  birds ;  and  Cheere's  leaden  painted  figures 
of  a  shepherd  and  shepherdess  were  objects  of  as 
much  admiration  with  her  neighbours  as  they  were 
with  my  Lord  Ogleby,  who  thus  accosts  his  friend 
in   the  second  scene  of  the  '  Clandestine  Marriage ' : 


ii8  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

'  Great  improvements,  indeed,  Mr.  Stirling  !  wonderful 
improvements  1  The  four  seasons  in  lead,  the  flying 
Mercury,  and  the  basin  with  Neptune  in  the  middle 
are  in  the  very  extreme  of  fine  taste.  You  have  as 
many  such  figures  as  the  man  at  Hyde  Park  Corner.'" 
Francis  Bird,  the  sculptor  of  the  original  Queen 
Anne  group  in  front  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and 
the  Abbey  monument  of  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel,  which 
Pope  called  "the  bathos  of  sculpture,"  was  born  in 
Piccadilly.  In  Carter's  statuary  yard  at  loi  Picca- 
dilly, Roubiliac  found  his  first  employment  in  London. 
Here  also  worked  John  Deare,  who  met  his  death 
in  Rome  by  his  rash  experiment  of  sleeping  on  a 
block  of  marble  in  the  hope  that  he  would  dream 
of  a  masterpiece.  Scheemakers,  the  sculptor  of  the 
Shakespeare  statue  in  Westminster  Abbey,  had  his 
studios  in  Vine  Street,  Piccadilly,  where  Nollekens, 
his  apprentice,  made  rapid  progress  in  spite  of  his 
passion  for  helping  the  sexton  to  toll  the  death-bell 
at  St.  James's  Church. 

When  Piccadilly  began  to  attract  wealthy  residents, 
the  statuary  folk  moved  northward  to  the  Oxford 
Street  and  Fitzroy  regions.  Thus  Rysbrack  had 
workshops  in  Vere  Street,  where  he  carved  Sir 
Isaac  Newton's  monument  for  the  Abbey.  Agostino 
Carlini  settled  at  14  Carlisle  Street,  Soho.  He  exe- 
cuted three  of  the  nine  symbolic  heads  of  British 
rivers  on  the  Strand  front  of  Somerset  House,  those 
of  Tyne,  Severn,  and  Dee.  His  assistant  was  Giuseppe 
Ceracchi,  who  left  him  to  establish  himself  north  of 
Oxford  Street  at  No.  76  Margaret  Street,  where  he 
instructed  that  clever  amateur,  the  Honourable  Mrs. 
Damer.  This  unfortunate  sculptor  joined  the  Paris 
revolutionists,  and  was  guillotined  in  1801,  but  at 
least  he  contrived  to  be  drawn  to  his  execution   in 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING   OF   THE   GODS        119 

a  car  designed  by  himself,  and  in  the  habit  of  a 
Roman  Emperor. 

That  successful  and  religiously  minded  artist,  John 
Bacon,  R.A.,  settled  at  17,  Newman  Street,  where 
he  moulded  his  gladiatorial  statue  of  Dr.  Johnson  for 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  the  Chatham  monuments  in  the 
Guildhall  and  the  Abbey,  and  the  recumbent  figure 
of  Father  Thames  in  the  quadrangle  of  Somerset 
House.  Bacon's  courtly  side  appeared  in  his  reply 
to  Queen  Charlotte,  who,  looking  at  the  Thames  group, 
asked  him,  "  Why  did  you  make  so  frightful  a  figure  ?  " 
"  Art,"  he  replied,  "  cannot  always  effect  what  is  ever 
within  the  reach  of  Nature — the  union  of  beauty  and 
majesty."  Bacon's  thoroughly  British  outlook  made 
him  popular,  his  business-like  habits  brought  him 
wealth.  A  story  illustrates  his  methods.  An  order 
for  a  monument  had  been  left  with  his  foreman  in 
Newman  Street  during  his  absence. 

"  Well,"  he  said  on  his  return,  "is  it  to  be  in  memory 
of  a  private  gentleman  ? — and  what  price  was  proposed  ?" 

"  Three  hundred  pounds,  sir." 

"Three  hundred  pounds — a  small  bas-relief  will 
do.  Was  he  a  benevolent  man  ?  You  asked  that,  I 
hope." 

"Yes,  sir — he  was  a  benevolent  man.  He  always 
gave  sixpence,  they  said,  to  the  old  woman  who 
opened  his  pew-door  on  Sundays." 

"  That  will  do — that  will  do  ;  we  must  have  recourse 
to  our  old  friend,  the  Pelican." 

The  art  associations  and  rural  features  of  the  district 
between  Oxford  Street  and  the  Euston  Road  are  to 
be  found  in  the  pages  of  John  Thomas  Smith's  harum- 
scarum  biography,  "Nollekens  and  his  Times,"  and 
in  his  anecdotal  miscellany,  "A  Book  for  a  Rainy 
Day."     As  a  boy  Smith  began  to  help  his  father,  who 


120  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

was  Nollekens'  assistant,  and  he  was  drawing  in  the 
Mortimer  Street  studio  when  Dr.  Johnson  sat  for 
his  bust.  The  doctor  looked  at  the  boy's  work  and, 
patting  him  on  the  head,  said,  *^  Very  well,  very  well." 
The  boy  went  to  the  surrounding  studios  with  his 
master  or  his  father.  In  Foley  Place,  old  Joseph 
Wilton,  R.A.,  had  his  yard  and  workshops,  and  here 
was  a  model  of  the  coronation  coach  which  he  had 
helped  to  build  for  George  III,  and,  indeed,  for  his 
present  Majesty.  Wilton  had  done  the  carving, 
Cipriani  the  paintings,  and  the  general  design  was 
made  by  Sir  William  Chambers,  who  married  Wilton's 
daughter.  Smith  recalls  a  pretty  cottage  near  the 
Middlesex  Hospital,  where  one  of  Wilton's  labourers 
lived,  and  near  it  a  rope-walk  and  two  rows  of 
magnificent  elms,  under  which  he  often  saw 
Richardson  Wilson,  the  painter,  walk  with  Joseph 
Baretti. 

Wilson  lived  at  No.  36  (now  76)  Charlotte  Street, 
where  he  liked  to  throw  open  his  window  to  enjoy  the 
sunset  behind  the  Hampstead  and  Highgate  uplands. 
London  has  since  interposed  many  mean  streets  be- 
tween his  house  and  those  Delectable  Mountains,  yet 
looking  up  Charlotte  Street  on  a  clear  day  you  will 
see  the  thin  spire  of  Highgate  Church  piercing  the 
brightness  of  the  north  horizon.  I  love  the  memory 
of  this  brusque,  bottle-nosed  master  who  slouched 
around  his  lodgings  in  the  Covent  Garden  Piazza, 
drank  and  talked  at  Old  Slaughter's,  and  pawned  his 
pictures  in  Long  Acre,  while  to  his  inner  eye  the 
Italian  sun  bathed  rock  and  temple  in  the  light  of 
a  younger  world.  It  was  from  Covent  Garden,  where 
he  had  a  model  made  of  a  portion  of  the  Piazza  (the 
entire  work  of  the  piers  being  provided  with  drawers, 
and  the   openings  of  the  arches  holding  pencils  and 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING  OF  THE   GODS       121 

oil-bottles),  that  Wilson  moved  to  Charlotte  Street,  and 
thence,  cruising  in  the  same  district,  to  Foley  Place 
and  Tottenham  Street.  His  misfortune  was  to  produce 
unsaleable  pictures  which  prepared  the  way  for 
Turner.  But  Peter  Pindar,  who  chastised  the  painters 
of  his  day  with  scorpions,  foresaw  Wilson's  value  to 
posterity.  Wilson  was  at  least  spared  the  bitterness 
of  self-distrust.  He  once  said  to  Sir  William  Beechy, 
"  You  will  live  to  see  great  prices  given  for  my  pictures, 
when  those  of  Barret  will  not  fetch  one  farthing."  His 
later  London  days  were  brightened  when  he  received 
the  post  of  librarian  to  the  Royal  Academy.  Then  he 
came  unexpectedly  into  a  small  estate  in  Wales,  left 
him  by  his  brother.  He  journeyed  down  from  London 
to  Lanverris,  in  Denbighshire,  to  sit  on  the  rocks  in 
the  sun,  and  to  hold  communion  with  the  grey 
hills.  But  his  powers  were  spent,  and  one  day  while 
walking  with  his  dog  he  sank  exhausted.  The  dog 
ran  home  and  pulled  the  servants  to  the  spot  where 
his  dying  master  lay.  Few  men  had  known  more  of 
London  squalor  or  of  Italian  beauty.  What  pic- 
tures and  titles  were  his  :  "  The  Death  of  Niobe," 
"The  Villa  of  Maecenas  at  Tivoli,"  "Celadon  and 
Amelia,"  "  View  on  the  Coast  of  Baiae,"  "  The  Tomb 
of  the  Horatii  and  Curatii,"  "  The  Broken  Bridge  of 
Nemi."  What  concord  of  names  and  hues  of  the 
evening  ! 

In  those  days  the  northern  end  of  Newman  Street 
commanded  a  view  of  fields  and  hillocks,  and  Nolle- 
kens  remembered  that  he  had  come  with  his  mother 
to  the  top  of  this  street  to  walk  by  a  long  pond  near 
a  windmill,  and  that  the  miller  charged  a  halfpenny 
to  people  who  entered  his  grounds.  He  could  recall 
thirteen  fine  walnut-trees  standing  a  little  north  of 
Hanway   Street.     One    Sunday  morning  he    and   his 


122  A    LONDONER'S   LONDON 

pupil  saw  the  parish  beadles  seize  the  clothes  of  some 
boys  who  were  bathing  in  another  pond,  known  as 
Cockney  Ladle,  on  the  site  of  Duke  Street,  Portland 
Place.  The  water  in  the  Marylebone  Basin  hard  by 
was  dangerously  deep,  and  many  drownings  occurred  in 
these  ponds,  whose  sites  are  marked  in  old  maps.  The 
semi-rural  state  of  these  districts  is  curiously  evident 
in  a  piece  of  news  published  in  the  "St.  James's 
Chronicle"  of  8  August,  1769  :  "Two  young  [sedan] 
chairmen  were  unfortunately  drowned  on  Friday  even- 
ing last  in  a  pond  behind  the  north  side  of  Portman 
Square.  They  had  been  beating  a  carpet  in  the 
square,  and,  being  thereby  warm  and  dirty,  agreed  to 
bathe  in  the  above  pond,  not  being  aware  of  its  great 
depth." 

But  houses  soon  multiplied,  and  their  coming  is 
reflected  in  John  Constable's  discovery  that  Charlotte 
Street,  where  he  settled  in  1822,  was  becoming  a  place 
of  distractions.  To  be  "  out  of  the  way  of  the  callers," 
and  on  account  of  his  wife's  poor  health,  he  took  another 
house  at  Hampstead,  retaining  a  studio  in  Charlotte 
Street.  And  Edward  Fitzgerald,  who  lodged  sometimes 
in  the  street,  wrote  from  it  in  1844  :  "  O  Barton,  man  ! 
but  I  am  grilled  here.  O  for  to  sit  upon  the  banks  of 
the  dear  old  Deben,  with  the  worthy  collier  sloop 
going  forth  into  the  wide  world  as  the  sun  sinks." 
And  Constable's  own  heart  was  in  that  East  Anglia 
which  is  so  little  esteemed  by  the  amateurs  of  scenery, 
though  it  inspired  Gainsborough,  Cotman,  and 
Crome.  He  reverted  always  to  his  boyhood  on  the 
Stour.  "  The  sound  of  water  escaping  from  mill- 
dams,  etc.,  willows,  old  rotten  planks,  slimy  posts,  and 
brickwork — I  love  such  things."  Charlotte  Street  has 
become  populous  and  also  un-English,  but  to-day  Ded- 
ham  Church  rises  with  motherly  grace  in  the  Stour 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING   OF   THE   GODS        123 

valley,  where  willows  and  aspens  quiver  among  the 
darker  trees,  as  Constable  painted  them  ;  the  river  is 
deep  and  pure  at  Flatford  Mill,  and  only  the  shadow 
on  the  dial  seems  to  have  moved  in  the  little  church- 
yard of  East  Bergholt. 

Charlotte  Street  is  now  the  long,  straight  artery  of  a 
northern  Soho.  Here  waiters  are  waited  on  at  their 
clubs.  Here  flourish  German  and  Austrian  and  French 
restaurants,  revolutionary  clubs,  blanchisseries,  char- 
cuteries,  and  bureaux  de  placement.  The  newspapers 
of  half  a  dozen  countries  and  their  flamboyant  fiction 
can  be  bought  here.  Walking  these  streets  one  can 
still  feel  the  Marylebone  fields  underfoot.  The  old 
ponds  do  not  seem  to  have  been  filled  up,  and  curious 
depressions,  dedicated  now  to  mews  and  garages,  can 
be  found.  Many  of  the  early  genteel  houses  are  stand- 
ing hear  Rathbone  Place,  and  it  is  noticeable  that 
in  certain  streets  the  better  houses  are  on  the  south 
side  with  an  air  of  having  enjoyed  the  old  view  up 
to  Highgate. 

The  cottages  opposite  the  statuary  yards  in  the 
Euston  Road  were  known  as  Quickset  Row.  The 
Green  Man  Tavern  by  Portland  Road  then  stood  on 
the  edge  of  the  town,  and  its  windows  looked  on 
the  fields  and  stacks  of  two  farms.  Willan's  farm  was 
at  the  top  of  Portland  Street.  Mr.  Willan  came  up 
from  Yorkshire  as  a  young  man.  He  was  a  good 
judge  of  horses,  and  became  a  successful  contractor 
for  cavalry  mounts  and  one  of  those  opulent  grass- 
farmers  who  supplied  London  with  milk.  Of  him,  as 
of  Laycock  at  Islington,  it  was  said  that  though  he 
owned  999  cows  he  never  could  keep  a  thousand.  To 
many  a  Londoner  this  farm  had  been  a  landmark  in 
boyhood.  White-thorn  hedges  led  from  it  to  Primrose 
Hill,  and  there  was  a  famous  stickleback  pond.     Hard 


134  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

by  was  the  "Jew's  Harp"  tea-garden,  with  boxes  for 
snug  parties,  and  about  it  a  number  of  Cockney 
summer-houses  with  castellated  roofs  on  which 
miniature  cannon  were  permanently  silent.  A  zigzag 
path,  known  as  Love  Lane,  led  to  the  "Queen's  Head 
and  Artichoke,"  a  like  resort. 

Not  far  off,  in  the  Marylebone  Road,  stood  the 
"Yorkshire  Stingo,"  whence,  in  1829,  the  first  parents 
of  the  London  omnibus  ran  to  the  Bank  at  the  bidding 
of  George  Shillibeer.  The  "  Yorkshire  Stingo "  was 
not  the  birthplace  of  this  great  species  of  vehicle ; 
Paris  gave  the  omnibus  to  London.  After  a  life  of 
piety  and  austerity,  after  writing  tracts  which  in  Vol- 
taire's judgment  equalled  Moli^re  in  their  wit  and 
Bossuet  in  their  sublimity,  and  after  committing  to 
the  judgment  of  Heaven  the  opinions  for  which  Rome 
had  condemned  him,  Blaise  Pascal  drooped  into 
suffering,  invented  the  omnibus,  and  died.  Paris  went 
mad  over  the  conveyance,  and  then  forgot  it.  In  1819 
Lafitte,  the  banker,  reintroduced  the  vehicle  under  the 
name  of  "  omnibus." 

Dictionaries  coldly  derive  the  word  from  the  Latin 
without  the  pleasing  legend  that  belongs  to  it.  In  an 
old  French  magazine  may  be  found  the  story  of  a 
certain  M.  Baudry,  who  established  in  1827  hot  baths 
in  a  suburb  of  Nantes.  Lacking  customers,  he  sent, 
at  fixed  hours,  a  long  car  into  the  highways  and 
hedges,  or  rather  into  the  centre  of  the  town,  to  in- 
duce them  to  come  in.  This  was  the  first  "  omnibus." 
The  name  occurred  to  a  friend  of  Baudry's,  and  it 
caught  the  public  fancy  the  more  readily  because  a 
grocer  of  Nantes  named  Omnes  had  painted  over  his 
door  the  words,  "  Omnes  Omnibus  "  (Omnes  for  All). 
Taking  a  hint  from  his  local  success,  Baudry  started 
omnibuses  in  Paris,  but  the  winter  of  1829  made  the 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING  OF  THE  GODS       125 

streets  slippery  and  forage  dear,  and  he  is  said  to  have 
died  of  grief.  In  that  year  the  first  London  omnibus 
ran  from  the  "Yorkshire  Stingo."  London  did  not 
take  kindly  to  the  word  "  omnibus."  "  What  is  the 
plural  ?  "  people  asked  ;  and  when  Joseph  Hume  spoke 
in  the  House  of  Commons  of  omnihi  there  was  the 
laughter  called  "much."  The  vehicles  were  long 
known  as  "  Shillibeers/'  and  if  their  proprietor  had  not 
met  with  misfortune  and  taken  to  providing  hearses, 
the  name  would  probably  have  survived  to  this  day. 
As  it  was,  people  felt  an  ambiguity.  The  first  two 
"  Shillibeers "  ran  to  the  City  by  the  New  Road,  now 
the  Marylebone,  Euston,  and  Pentonville  Roads. 
They  were  drawn  by  three  horses  abreast,  and  had 
conductors  who  had  been  with  Shillibeer  in  Paris — 
likely  young  men.  They  wore  a  middy-like  costume, 
and  when  it  became  known  that  they  were  sons  of  naval 
officers  the  young  ladies  of  Paddington  used  to  ride  as 
far  as  King's  Cross  in  order  to  improve  their  French. 

The  "  Shillibeers  "  carried  twenty-two  passengers  ;  the 
fare  was  a  shilling.  Newspapers  and  magazines  were 
provided — not  without  reason,  since  the  journey  was 
slow,  and  there  was  a  long  half-way  halt.  In  this 
generosity  Shillibeer  was  outdone  by  a  later  owner, 
Mr.  Cloud,  who  ran  omnibuses  between  the  Hay- 
market  and  Chelsea.  Cloud  placed  a  small  well-chosen 
library  in  each  of  his  omnibuses,  so  that  he  who  rode 
might  read  the  standard  authors.  People  rode  to 
Hammersmith  purposely  to  read  these  books.  As  they 
also  stole  them,  this  method  of  getting  culture  was 
not  so  expensive  as  it  looks.  The  first  free  library 
was  an  omnibus.^ 

»  For  many  of  these  particulars  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Henry  Charles 
Moore's  useful  and  entertaining  "  Omnibuses  and  Cabs  :  Their  Origin 
and  History." 


126  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

On  the  site  of  Osnaburgh  Street  stood  Kendall's 
farm,  where  old  people  remembered  seeing  eight  or 
ten  big  hayricks  in  a  row.  To  the  Green  Man  Tavern 
came  Richard  Wilson  to  play  skittles.  The  "Green 
Man"  was  then  known  as  the  Farthing  Pie-house, 
from  the  mutton-pies  which  were  sold  there  when 
a  farthing  went  farther  than  it  does  now.  It  was  kept 
by  one  Price,  an  inspired  performer  on  that  mysterious 
musical  instrument,  the  salt-box,  which  was  beaten 
with  a  rolling-pin,  apparently  as  a  drum  capable  of 
producing  something  like  notes.  The  great  Abel,  the 
'cello  player,  and  the  friend  of  Gainsborough,  was 
another  of  Price's  crony  customers. 

The  regrets  which  the  spread  of  London  awakened, 
about  the  time  when  Miser  Elwes  was  running  up 
his  streets  in  St.  John's  Wood,  are  set  forth  in  the 
chapter  "Nothing  to  Eat"  in  Pyne's  "Wine  and 
Walnuts."  Says  Dr.  Ducarel  :  "  I  remember  those 
fields  in  their  natural,  rural  garb,  covered  with  herds 
of  kine,  when  you  might  stretch  across  from  old 
Willan's  farm  there,  a-top  of  Portland  Street,  right 
away  without  impediment  to  St.  John's  Wood, 
where  I  have  gathered  blackberries  as  a  boy."  It  is 
on  record  that  Thomas  Lowe,  "  Tommy  Lowe "  of 
Vauxhall,  raised  a  subscription  to  enable  a  poor  man 
to  give  children  rides  in  this  quiet  neighbourhood  in 
a  small  chariot  drawn  by  four  muzzled  mastiffs. 

Trinity  Church  parts  Osnaburgh  Street  from  Albany 
Street.  Osnaburgh  Street  was  named  after  the  Duke 
of  York — of  the  Column — in  his  character  of  Bishop 
of  Osnaburg.  It  leads  to  Cumberland  Market,  which 
is  the  old  Haymarket's  haymarket  mislaid,  and  one 
of  the  most  outlandish  places  in  London.  Under 
snow  it  is  the  picture  of  a  Siberian  village  in  a  forty- 
year-old  wood-cut. 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING   OF   THE   GODS        127 

A  large  motor-car  exchange  has  given  a  touch  of 
the  twentieth  century  to  the  lower  end  of  Albany 
Street,  which  also  has  its  name  from  the  Duke  of 
York  (and  Albany).  The  presence  of  this  mechanical 
establishment  produces  a  coincidence,  for  it  was  in 
Albany  Street  that  Sir  Goldworth  Gurney  constructed 
the  first  effective  motor-car  seen  in  this  country  in 
the  shape  of  his  famous  "steam-carriage."  Gurney 
was  a  flourishing  doctor  in  Regent  Street,  and  moved 
hither  into  premises  where  he  could  develop  his  idea. 
His  daughter's  interest  in  the  progress  of  this  machine 
may  not  have  been  shared  by  the  neighbours. 

"  From  a  window  of  my  room  I  looked  into  the 
yard  where  my  father  was  constructing  his  steam- 
carriage.  The  intense  combustion  caused  by  the 
steam-blast,  and  the  consequent  increase  of  high- 
pressure  steam  force  acting  on  the  jet,  created  such 
a  tremendous  current  or  draught  of  air  up  the 
chimney  that  it  was  something  terrific  to  see  or  to 
hear. 

"  The  workmen  would  sometimes  throw  things  into 
the  fire  as  the  carriage  passed  round  the  yard — large 
pieces  of  slate  or  sheet-iron — which  would  dart  up 
the  chimney  like  a  shot,  falling  occasionally  nearer 
to  the  men  than  was  safe,  and  my  father  would 
have  to  check  their  enthusiasm.  The  roaring  sound, 
too,  sometimes  was  astounding.  Many  difficulties 
had  to  be  overcome,  which  occupied  years  before 
1827. 

"  The  noise  had  to  be  got  rid  of,  or  it  would  have 
frightened  horses,  and  the  heat  had  to  be  insulated, 
or  it  might  have  burnt  up  the  whole  vehicle.  The 
steam  machinery  was  at  first  contrived  to  be  in  the 
passenger-carriage  itself,  as  the  tuinpike  tolls  would 
have  been  double  for  two  vehicles.     My  father  was 


128  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

forcibly  reminded  of  this  fact,  for  there  was  then  a 
turnpike-gate  immediately  outside  the  manufactory. 
This  gate  was  first  on  the  south  side  of  the  doors, 
and  the  steam-carriage  was  often  exercised  in  the 
Regent's  Park  barrack-yard ;  then  the  gate  was  moved 
just  a  few  yards  to  the  north,  between  the  doors  and 
the  barracks. 

"But  perhaps  the  greatest  difficulty,  next  to  that 
of  prejudice,  which  was  strong  against  all  machinery 
in  those  days,  was  to  control  the  immense  power  of 
the  steam  and  to  guide  the  carriage.  It  would  go 
round  the  factory-yard  more  like  a  thing  flying  than 
running,  and  my  father  was  often  in  imminent  peril 
while  making  these  experiments. 

"He,  however,  at  last  brought  the  carriage  com- 
pletely under  control,  and  it  was  perfected.  One  was 
built  to  carry  the  machinery,  the  driver,  and  stoker 
only,  and  to  draw  another  carriage  after  it.  My  father 
could  guide  it,  turn  it,  or  back  it  easily  ;  he  could 
set  it  going  or  stop  it  instantly,  uphill  or  down  ;  he 
frequently  went  to  Hampstead,  Highgate,  Edgware, 
Barnet,  Stanmore,  and  its  rate  could  be  maintained 
at  twenty  miles  an  hour,  though  this  speed  could 
only  be  indulged  in  where  the  road  was  straight  and 
wide,  and  the  way  clearly  to  be  seen." 

To  No.  37  Albany  Street  Frank  Buckland  took 
his  young  wife  (Miss  Hannah  Papes)  in  1863,  and 
here  he  lived  until  his  death  in  1880.  This  house 
had  previously  been  occupied  by  Charles  Dickens's 
father-in-law,  Mr.  Hogarth.  Here  Buckland  set  up 
the  most  amazing  household  in  London.  Animals, 
birds,  and  reptiles  were  to  be  seen  everywhere ; 
monkeys  were  not  too  troublesome,  a  jaguar  was 
not  too  wild,  snakes  and  glow-worms  were  not  too 
unpleasant,  to  be  welcome  in  the  house.     Cats,  rats, 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING  OF  THE   GODS       129 

mice,  parrots,  and  guinea-pigs  and  laughing  jackasses 
were  there  as  a  matter  of  course.  A  hght  in  the 
kitchen  window  would  signal  the  fact  that  Buckland 
was  working  all  night  to  make  a  cast  of  a  sturgeon 
borrowed  from  a  Bond  Street  fishmonger.  Parties 
of  New  Zealanders,  Zulus,  and  Aztecs,  arrived  in 
London,  took  a  bee-line  to  37  Albany  Street.  The 
Siamese  Twins  and  the  Two-headed  Nightingale  were 
received  there  as  friends  of  the  family.  It 'was  a 
happy  household,  and  Mrs.  Buckland's  part  may  be 
understood  in  the  fact  that  her  particular  pet  was 
the  young  jaguar.  Death  came  untimely  to  this  fine 
naturalist  and  Government  Inspector  of  Fisheries. 
His  biographer's  account  of  Buckland's  farewell  to 
life,  once  read,  cannot  be  forgotten.  "  God  is  so 
good,"  he  said,  '^  so  very  good  to  the  little  fishes,  I  do 
not  believe  He  would  let  their  inspector  suffer  ship- 
wreck at  last  ?  I  am  going  a  long  journey,  where 
I  think  I  shall  see  a  great  many  curious  animals. 
This  journey  I  must  go  alone." 

To  look  up  Albany  Street  is  to  think  of  Camden 
Town,  a  great  habitat  of  young  Londoners.  The 
name  is  a  vague  geographical  expression,  standing 
for  a  district  which  lies  between  and  about  the  Cobden 
statue  and  the  eponymous  North  London  Railway 
Station.  It  was  not  easy  to  say  exactly  where  the 
old  yellow  bus  entered  or  left  it. 

The  district  came  into  being  in  1791.  The  date  is 
fixed  by  a  letter  of  Horace  Walpole's,  in  which  he 
says,  '^  Lord  Camden  has  just  let  ground  at  Kentish 
Town  for  building  fourteen  hundred  houses — nor  do 
I  wonder.  London  is,  I  am  certain,  much  fuller  than 
ever  I  saw  it."  Charles  Jenner,  the  author  of  certain 
**  Town  Eclogues,"  appears  to  have  seen  these  bricky 
beginnings  and  to  have  disliked  them.     He  represents 


130  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

himself  as  a  poet  sitting  on  a  stile  near  the  ^'Mother 
Red  Cap  "  :— 

Where'er  around  I  cast  my  wandering  eyes, 
Long  burning  rows  of  fetid  bricks  arise. 

Probably  these  lines  were  written  rather  earlier  than 
1791,  but  they  smack  of  the  changing  soil,  and  they 
recall  the  moment  when  the  London  we  know  was 
emerging  from  the  eighteenth  century. 

Charles  Pratt,  Lord  Camden,  was  Attorney-General 
and  Lord  Chancellor,  and  a  brave  and  honourable 
man.  He  it  was  who  gave  Wilkes  his  Habeas  Corpus. 
The  people  adored  him  as  a  friend  of  liberty.  ^'  Busts 
and  prints  of  him  were  hawked  through  remote 
villages  ;  a  Reynolds  portrait  of  him  was  hung  up 
in  the  Guildhall.  .  .  .  English  journals  and  travellers 
carried  his  fame  over  Europe."  This  was  the  man 
who  founded  Camden  Town,  and  gave  his  name  to 
Pratt  Street,  and  who,  as  Viscount  Bayham  and  as 
the  husband  of  a  Brecknock  lady,  is  also  represented 
in  the  names  of  Bayham  Street  and  Brecknock  Road. 

A  hundred  years  ago  fields  still  spread  where 
Dickens  was  to  be  baptized  a  Londoner  in  the  gloom 
of  Camden  Town.  Bayham  Street  was  not  built  in 
1806 ;  it  was  ready  for  the  Dickens  family  in  1823. 
As  a  fact,  it  was  built  in  181 2.  At  the  back  of 
Bayham  Street  there  was  a  hayfield  for  Boy  Boz  to 
tumble  in.  When  the  Dickens  family  came  to  it  the 
street  was  already  small-suburban.  A  washerwoman 
lived  next  door,  and  a  Bow  Street  officer  made  one 
house  awful  over  the  way.  Yet  the  street  was  not 
so  humble  as  now.  The  father  of  Frank  Holl,  the 
Royal  Academician,  lived  in  Bayham  Street,  and  at 
least  two  well-known  artists  and   a  dramatic  author. 


i 


CHARLOTTE    STREET    (WITH   JOHxX    CONSTABLE'S    HOUSE) 

NOW    THE    LONG   STRAIGHT    ARTERY   OF    A    NORTHERN    SOHO,    WHERE    WAITERS 
ARE   WAITED   ON   AT   THEIR   CLUBS      (r.   123) 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING  OF  THE   GODS       131 

The  district  was  lit  by  oil-lamps,  and  Boy  Boz  often 
ran  to  the  top  of  the  street  to  see  the  watchman 
start  from  his  box,  which  stood  there,  to  light  the 
lamps  round  the  Mother  Red  Cap  Tavern. 

From  the  Mother  Red  Cap  Tavern  southwards  the 
High  Street  rose  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
At  first  it  consisted  of  small  shops  with  one  floor 
above,  and  a  few  of  these  houses  remain.  The  most 
conspicuous  object  in  High  Street  is  the  statue  of 
Cobden  at  its  foot.  Napoleon  III  was  a  large  con- 
tributor to  the  cost  of  this  monument,  which  was 
fashioned  in  one  of  the  Euston  Road  sculpture  yards. 
It  was  erected  in  1868  on  the  site  of  a  turnpike  that 
had  disappeared  five  years  earlier,  and  Mrs.  Cobden  and 
her  daughter  stood  on  a  neighbouring  balcony  to  see 
the  unveiling.  It  is  a  peculiarity  in  this  statue  that, 
seen  from  behind,  it  raises  a  vivid  expectation  that  you 
are  approaching  an  effigy  of  the  late  Lord  Salisbury. 

Returning  now  to  the  sepulchral  end  of  the  Euston 
Road :  visible  from  it  at  various  turnings,  is  a 
street  which  belongs  to  few  men's  London.  Its 
length  of  tall  but  odd-sized  Georgian  houses  is  best 
known  in  the  view  of  it  from  the  Tottenham  Court 
Road,  looking  westward.  Warren  Street,  its  name. 
The  average  Londoner  knows  this  street  only  as  a 
sub-conscious  glimpse  into  a  hinterland  with  which 
he  has  no  concern.  Small  chandlers,  bootmakers, 
greengrocers,  plumbers,  and  so  on  are  established  in 
the  ground-floors  of  many  of  the  houses,  and  in  the 
room  that  was  once  a  parlour  petrol-tanks  are 
charged.  Other  houses  keep  their  residential  role. 
It  is  a  dingy,  populous  street  of  no  attraction,  the 
sort  of  street  in  which  Frank  Buckland  might  have 
stopped  to  see  on  a  fine  day  a  dusty  dancing-bear. 
Yet  it  has  known  brisk  times  and  eager  guests.     In 


132  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

the  house  which  he  knew  as  No.  43 — it  is  now 
obliterated  by  a  warehouse — Dr.  WilHam  Kitchiner 
entertained  his  fellow-wits  and  gourmets.  The  last 
of  his  famous  dinners  was  held  eighty  years  ago. 

Kitchiner  had  inherited  ;£70,ooo  from  his  father,  a 
Strand  coal-merchant,  and  was  therefore  able  to  ride 
his  three  hobbies — optics,  cookery,  and  music.  To 
these  he  added  a  genial  eccentricity.  His  dinners 
were  often  elaborate  experiments  in  cookery,  and  the 
guests  had  to  recognize  this  fact.  Five  minutes  past 
five  was  the  minute,  and  if  a  guest  came  late  the 
janitor  had  irrevocable  orders  not  to  admit  him,  for 
it  was  held  by  the  mythical  "  Committee  of  Taste,"  of 
which  Kitchiner  was  "Secretary,"  that  the  perfection 
of  some  of  the  dishes  was  often  so  evanescent  that "  the 
delay  of  one  minute  after  their  arrival  at  the  meridian 
of  concoction  will  render  them  no  longer  worthy  of 
men  of  taste." 

In  becoming  an  epicure  Kitchiner  did  not  cease  to 
be  a  physician  with  a  care  for  the  human  machine. 
His  dinners,  though  recherche,  were  usually  limited 
to  three  dishes.  Sauces  were  his  peculiar  care. 
Alaric  Watts,  the  poet  and  editor,  recalled  an  evening 
when  the  doctor  produced  from  a  drawer  in  his  side- 
board a  sauce  of  superpiquant  quality,  upon  the  merits 
of  which  he  was  still  expatiating  when  a  guest,  taking 
up  the  bottle,  poured  at  least  a  teaspoonful  on  his 
plate.  "  God  bless  my  soul  1 "  exclaimed  Kitchiner, 
"  my  dear  friend,  do  you  know  what  you  have  done  ? 
You've  spoilt  your  steak  and  wasted  a  guinea's-worth 
of  my  sauce.  One  drop,  sir  I  One  drop  on  the  gravy 
was  all  that  was  needful  1 "  When  Kitchiner's  guests 
adjourned  to  the  drawing-room  they  found  curious 
arrangements  for  their  comfort.  Instead  of  chairs 
large   stuffed    animals  were  offered    them   for  seats. 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING   OF  THE   GODS        133 

The  doctor  liked  to  be  asked  to  play  on  an  old 
spinet.  Tea  and  coffee  were  served  by  neat  maids, 
who  were  not  forbidden  to  join  their  laughter  to 
the  company's  as  they  moved  about. 

Warren  Street  has  had  other  associations  with  the 
things  of  the  mind.  The  imprint  on  some  of  Turner's 
'*  Liber  Studiorum "  plates,  such  as  the  beautiful 
"  Straw-yard,"  reads  :  ^^  London  :  Published,  February 
20,  1808,  by  C.  Turner,  No.  50  Warren  Street,  Fitzroy 
Square."  Number  50  is  quite  unaltered,  but  its 
blackened  brick,  its  plain  doorway,  and  its  old  urn- 
and-spike  area  railings  call  for  no  sentimental  descrip- 
tion. Nor  was  there  much  sentiment  in  the  contract 
under  which  Charles  Turner  engraved  for  his  immortal 
namesake.  When  he  had  finished  twenty  out  of  fifty 
agreed  plates  he  represented  that  eight  guineas  a  plate 
was  not  enough.  The  result  was  that  Turner  did 
not  speak  to  his  engraver  again  for  nineteen  years. 
They  were  reconciled  at  last,  and  the  engraver  lived 
to  be  a  trustee  under  Turner's  will. 

At  No.  10  Warren  Street — the  ground-floor  is 
now  a  shoemaker's  shop — were  engraved  those  truly 
national  pictures,  David  Wilkie's  ^^  Village  Politicians  " 
and  "  Rent  Day."  Their  painter  gave  Abraham  Raim- 
bach  a  partnership  in  the  speculation,  and  his  concep- 
tion of  the  engraver's  toil  and  dues  was  such  that  only 
one-fourth  of  the  proceeds  was  to  be  Wilkie's  and 
three-fourths  were  to  be  Raimbach's.  This  arrange- 
ment was  inaugurated  by  the  plate  of  ''  The  Village 
Politicians."  The  engraver  had  seen  this  subject 
exhibited  as  the  work  of  a  young  and  unknown 
painter  at  the  Royal  Academy,  where  its  effect  on 
the  town  was  comparable  to  that  produced  by  Byron's 
"  Childe  Harold."  He  tells  us,  in  his  autobiography, 
that  Wilkie's  Blind  Fiddler,  in  the  print  of  that  name, 


134  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

is  a  portrait  of  an  old  man  who  played  his  fiddle  for 
coppers  in  Oxford  Street,  "at  the  wall  beyond  Lord 
Harewood's  house  in  Hanover  Square."  Wilkie 
painted  the  "  Fiddler "  within  a  stone's-throw  of 
Warren  Street  in  his  second  London  dwelling, 
No.  10  Sol's  Row,  a  site  now  covered  by  a  large 
furniture  establishment  in  the  Hampstead  Road. 

These  ploughmen  of  steel  and  copper  were  an 
interesting  race.  Raimbach  served  his  apprenticeship 
to  Hall,  who  had  been  a  pupil  of  Ravenet  and  a  chum 
of  William  Wynne  Ryland,  whose  perverted  talent, 
as  we  have  seen,  brought  him  to  Tyburn.  He 
mentions  that  the  great  Woollet,  when  he  had  com- 
pleted a  plate,  would  assemble  his  family  on  the  stair- 
landing  in  his  house  at  the  corner  of  Charlotte  and 
North  Streets  and  lead  them  in  three  cheers.  On 
special  occasions  he  would  also  fire  a  cannon  from 
the  roof. 

The  old  rurality  of  north-west  London  and  the 
incursions  of  the  London  mob  are  seen  in  Hogarth's 
masterly  picture,  '*  The  March  to  Finchley."  It  shows 
us  the  march  of  the  Guards  towards  Scotland  in  1745 
when  they  had  passed  the  turnpike.  We  see  the  two 
crowded  and  noisy  inns  on  either  side  of  the  way. 
Between  them,  in  the  distance,  the  long  file  of  the 
Guards  is  seen  marching  towards  the  Highgate  slopes 
across  open  country.  The  riotous  scene  in  the  fore- 
ground is  composed  of  laggards  of  the  regiment,  their 
wives  and  sweethearts,  and  a  mob  of  camp-followers 
and  town  riff-raff.  A  signboard  outside  the  Adam 
and  Eve  Tavern  in  the  picture  bears  the  words, 
"Tottenham  Court  Nursery,"  in  allusion  to  George 
Taylor's  school  of  pugilists.  Hogarth  introduces  a 
prize-fight  as  a  piece  of  by-play  in  the  scene,  and 
there   is  perhaps   no   figure   in   all   his  works    more 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING  OF  THE  GODS       135 

wonderfully  seized  than  that  of  the  potman  who  is 
watching  the  fight  with  staring  eyes,  and  with  fists 
clenched  in  sympathy  with  the  combatants.  Of  all 
such  Tottenham  Court  revels  only  two  relics  linger, 
the  name  of  the  tavern  and  the  name  Eden  Street, 
which  was  given  to  the  street  that  displaced  the  ^^  Adam 
and  Eve  "  tea-gardens,  once  shaded  by  fruit-trees  and 
furnished  with  arbours.  Gone  is  the  King's  Head 
Tavern  to  give  elbow-room  to  modern  tram-cars. 
Tolmer's  Square,  where  this  widening  of  the  street 
ends,  occupies  the  site  of  a  forgotten  New  River 
reservoir,  whose  waters  wrinkled  over  the  site  of  the 
small  palace  in  which  Edward  IV,  they  say,  fleeted 
the  time  with  Jane  Shore. 

Historically,  the  Tottenham  Court  Road  is  interest- 
ing at  its  two  extremities  and  in  its  middle.  At  all 
three  points  there  have  been  changes.  Whitefield's 
Tabernacle  has  been  rebuilt,  the  north  and  south  ends 
of  the  street  have  been  widened.  One  recalls  the  little 
island  of  houses  and  shops  that,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Tottenham  Court  Road,  formed  Bozier's  Court.  Here, 
fifty  years  ago,  and  for  long  after,  Mr.  Westell  had 
a  shop  which  is  mentioned  in  Lord  Lytton's  "  My 
Novel."  It  is  referred  to  in  Book  VII,  Chapter  IV. 
^*  One  day  three  persons  were  standing  before  an  old 
bookstall  in  a  small  passage  leading  from  Oxford  Street 
into  Tottenham  Court  Road.  .  .  .  '  Look,'  said  one  of 
the  gentlemen  to  the  other,  ^  I  have  discovered  here 
what  I  have  searched  for  in  vain  the  last  ten  years,  the 
Horace  of  1580,  the  Horace  of  the  Forty  Commen- 
tators.' The  shopman  lurking  within  his  hole  like 
a  spider  for  flies  was  now  called  out."  Mr.  Westell 
once  assured  me  that  he  was  the  spider,  and  that  he 
perfectly  remembers  the  Lyttons,  father  and  son, 
walking    into  his    shop   that  day — not,  however,   to 


136  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

buy  a  1580  Horace,  but  to  inquire  the  price  of 
three-volume  novels  1  When  Bozier's  Court  was 
demolished  there  was  an  inquiry  as  to  the  origin 
of  its  name,  and  from  a  musty  rate-book  was  dug 
the  fact  that  early  in  the  eighteenth  century  a  con- 
stable of  the  parish  named  William  Boozsher  owned 
a  plot  of  land  at  this  corner.  I  am  envious  of  these 
little  men  who  owned  London  and  whose  epitaphs  are 
in  the  map.  A  graceful  essayist  has  exclaimed  on  the 
honour  of  sharing  one's  name  with  a  rose,  but  a  nursery- 
man's rose  has  now  as  short  a  time  to  stay  as  we  or 
anything,  whereas  a  street  or  even  a  "  stairs  "  may  last 
three  centuries.  If  ever  I  reach  the  fields  of  asphodel 
I  mean  to  talk  with  these  onlie  begetters  and  wall 
landlords  of  the  ancient  places.  I  shall  seek  out  Mr. 
Ball  who,  I  hope,  will  describe  his  Pond,  even  if  he 
cannot  justify  it;  and  Farmer  Goodman,  whose  opinion 
on  the  present  condition  and  upkeep  of  his  Fields 
should  be  interesting.  Major  Foubert  must  be  full  of 
stories  about  his  **  Place,"  Short  will  know  what  he 
grew  in  his  Gardens,  and  I  fancy  that  Thavie  and 
Bartlett  and  little  Took  will  be  chatty. 

If  ^*  Bozier's  Court"  is  explained,  Hanway  Street  is 
misunderstood.  It  did  not,  as  some  feign,  take  its 
name  from  Jonas  Hanway,  the  first  male  Londoner  to 
carry  an  umbrella,  for  as  an  existing  tablet  shows  it 
dates  back  to  172 1,  when  Hanway  was  but  nine  years 
old.  The  street  seems  to  have  been  originally  Hanover 
Yard,  from  which  came  "  Hanway  Yard,"  and  Han- 
way Street.  I  have  found  the  hybrid  form,  Han  noway 
Street,  in  a  London  manual  published  in  1755.  The 
street  is  named  *'  Handway "  in  a  map  of  London 
published  ten  years  earlier  than  this,  but  the  vagaries 
of  spelling  in  such  cases  are  endless.  Hanway  Street 
has  nothing  at  all    to    do  with  umbrellas,  but  it  has 


THE   HOUSE-MOVING   OF  THE   GODS        137 

some  interest  for  lovers  of  the  game  of  draughts. 
The  tavern  at  its  junction  with  the  Tottenham 
Court  Road  bears  the  name  of  the  "  Blue  Posts,"  and 
this  house  (now  rebuilt)  was  once  kept  by  Joshua 
Sturges,  author  of  a  well-known  guide  to  the  game  of 
draughts,  published  in  1800,  and  dedicated  by  per- 
mission to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  His  epitaph  in  St. 
Pancras  Churchyard  has  long  been  obliterated,  but  it 
bore  glowing  testimony  to  his  skill  as  a  draughts- 
player  and  his  quahties  as  a  man. 

Modern,  blatant,  and  architecturally  dull,  this  great 
street-corner  is  one  of  the  ganglions  of  London's 
nervous  system.  It  must  have  had  this  character 
when  George  Borrow  stood  here  on  a  summer's  day 
in  1824  to  see  a  funeral  go  by.  "  Whose  body  is  in 
that  hearse  ?  "  he  asked  a  little  man  of  the  shopkeeper 
class.  "  The  mortal  relics  of  Lord  Byron,"  was  the 
ceremonious  answer.  The  funeral  passed  up  the 
Tottenham  Court  Road  on  its  way  to  Newstead. 
'^  Great  poet,  sir,"  said  the  little  shopkeeper,  '^  but 
unhappy." 

Not  often  since  has  the  democratic  mind  been 
turned  to  poetry  on  this  spot.  The  evening  omnibuses 
are  heavy  with  the  cares  of  Camden  Town,  Kentish 
Town,  and  Hollo  way.  Fatigued  or  pulsing,  here  is 
the  life  of  London  in  seething  average.  And  one 
remembers  that  when  Borrow's  dapper  little  shop- 
keeper had  commiserated  Byron,  he  added,  simply, 
"  I,  too,  am  frequently  unhappy." 


CHAPTER   VI 

LANE   AND   LABYRINTH 

St.  Giles's  Village— The  Resurrection  Gate— The  Ballad  Shop— 
Soho— The  Author  of  "Lacon"— The  Clare  Market  Labyrinth— The 
Great  Storm—"  Ypol  "—A  Sinister  Archway— A  Night  of  Terrors — A 
Murder  and  its  Literature— The  Owl — In  Search  of  a  Mantelpiece — 
A  Dynasty  of  Door-knockers— Chancery  Lane  and  Shakespeare— 
Where  Hazlitt  talked— The  Rolls  Chapel— Ready  to  "Decompound 
Evidence  "—The  Inertia  of  London— A  Great  Corner 

OVER  the  way,  set  back  in  its  own  air,  St.  Giles's 
Church  talks  to  the  sky  of  the  little  old  parish 
and  the  graves  beneath.  Let  us  walk  into  the 
village  by  its  High  Street,  down  whose  narrowness 
the  yellow  bus  used  to  rattle.  The  bleached  tower 
rises  as  in  Hogarth's  print  of  "  Noon."  In  the  church- 
yard sleeps  George  Chapman,  the  translator  of  Homer, 
and  in  the  church,  Andrew  Marvell,  the  friend  of 
Milton.  And  here  is  the  little-known  Resurrection 
Gate,  of  which  we  should  know  more  if  it  were  in 
Bruges.  Coaches  would  pull  up  before  it  if  it  were 
near  Hastings.  Go  up  to  it,  and  you  are  looking  at  a 
relievo  of  the  Resurrection,  with  saints  and  sinners 
rising  from  their  graves.  Whole-hearted  antiquaries 
have  declared  it  a  copy  from  Michelangelo,  but  Mr. 
Blotton  (of  Aldgate)  would  make  it  the  creation  of  an 
obscure    ship-carver.     And    he    is    almost    certainly 

right. 

138 


LANE    AND   LABYRINTH  139 

St.  Giles's  began  as  a  Middlesex  village,  became  an 
Irish  "rookery/'  and  is  now  a  safe  and  ventilated 
labyrinth  through  which  you  may  wander  to  Charing 
Cross  or  Covent  Garden.  In  Broad  Street,  in  a  hazy 
hour,  you  may  still  receive  a  strong  impression  of 
village  separateness  and  a  mothering  church.  The 
district  has  a  certain  self-containment,  and  the  small 
miscellaneous  shop  is  frequent.  One  of  these  is 
almost  a  village  shop,  in  which  eggs  are  peeping  out 
among  newspapers.  Groceries,  toys,  and  Eccles  cakes 
mingle  with  penny  fiction  ;  penny  condiments  dot  the 
shelves,  tiny  bottles  of  sauce  (the  glory  of  a  single 
dinner),  and  French  capers,  and  pencils,  and  almanacs, 
and  sweets — not  Cockney  sweets,  but  pebbly  lollipops 
and  aniseed  bouncers.  And  ballads  that  exhale  early 
Victorian  jest  and  the  Cockney  "z;." 

The  town  movements  of  the  last  twenty-four  years 
have  affected  the  whole  inter-arterial  region  which 
stretched  without  a  break  from  Regent  Street  to 
Lincoln's  Inn.  Of  the  three  great  districts  so  con- 
tained, the  great  Clare  Market  region,  which  was 
Cockney,  has  been  spirited  away.  St.  Giles's,  which 
was  Irish,  stands  ventilated  and  rather  empty.  Soho, 
which  is  foreign,  after  ceding  its  Alsace  to  the  Charing 
Cross  Road,  and  its  Lorraine  to  Shaftesbury  Avenue, 
preserves  its  compact  labyrinths  and  cosmopolitan 
charm.  The  man  who  is  tired  of  London  might 
retreat  to  Soho  very  comfortably  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  Within  its  bounding  arteries,  Oxford  Street, 
Charing  Cross  Road,  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  and  Regent 
Street,  he  can  find  all  the  conveniences  and  amenities 
of  life,  and  not  a  few  of  its  modest  luxuries.  Soho  can 
offer  him  rooms  in  which  only  the  muted  roar  of 
London  will  reach  his  ear  ;  social  restaurants  in  which 
he  can  dine  in  several  languages,  theatres  on  its  fringe 


I40  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

for  his  entertainment;  and  hospitals  in  its  centre  for 
his  healing.  He  will  never  want  for  books,  or 
pictures,  or  oysters.  He  will  pass  the  cruet  to  ad- 
vanced young  men  and  women,  to  the  writers  who 
talk  of  their  "art,"  and  to  artists  who  paint  their 
mental  condition.  The  charm  of  old  streets  and 
illustrious  names  will  be  ever  at  his  hand,  and  he  may 
even  learn  the  way  to  Golden  Square — that  last  secret 
of  London  topography. 

A  man  who  did  retire  to  Soho,  from  sheer  unfitness 
to  live  elsewhere,  was  Charles  Caleb  Colton,  and  he 
quitted  it  only  to  die  miserably.  He  had  been  Rector 
of  Tiverton  and  Vicar  of  Kew,  but,  as  a  sympathetic 
friend  remarked,  he  could  live  in  Soho  at  a  sixth  of  the 
expense,  "  and  he  acted  accordingly."  It  is  unlikely 
that  either  of  his  parishes  missed  its  parson,  unless  it 
found  a  more  careless  incumbent,  which  was  scarcely 
possible.  It  was  at  Tiverton  that  Colton  rushed  from 
a  death-bed  to  his  church,  and  poured  forth  an 
exhortation  full  of  home  thrusts  and  in  favour  of 
strict  morals,  concluding  :  "  You  wonder  to  hear  such 
things  from  me  1  But  if  you  had  been  where  I  was 
just  now,  and  heard  and  seen  what  I  did,  you  would 
have  been  convinced  it  is  high  time  to  reform  our 
courses — and  I,  for  my  part,  am  determined  to  begin." 
But  the  parson  was  the  first  to  lapse.  Next  Sunday  he 
gabbled  through  a  fifteen  minutes'  sermon,  and  was 
seen  at  the  church-door  putting  his  dogs  and  gun  into 
his  gig  for  a  sporting  journey.  At  Kew,  Colton  kept 
his  cigars  under  the  pulpit,  where,  he  said,  the 
temperature  was  exactly  right. 

In  Soho's  warm  precincts  Colton,  wisely  resolving 
to  be  as  little  like  a  vicar  as  possible,  turned  wine- 
merchant.  He  had  always  a  nice  Soho  taste  in  wine, 
and    in    his    Princes   Street  garret,  overlooking  the 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   SOHO    (FOUBERTS'    PLACE) 

SOUO,    AFTER    CEDING    ITS   ALSACE   TO   THE    CHARING    CROSS   ROAD   AND    ITS 
LORRAINE  TO  SHAFTESBURY   AVENUE,    PRESERVES  ITS  COMPACT  LABYRINTHS 


LANE  AND   LABYRINTH  T41 

graves  of  St.  Anne's  Church,  he  would  produce  a 
superb  bottle  of  claret  or  port  for  a  chance  guest.  His 
wine-dealing  was  carried  on  in  a  cellar  sardonically 
chosen  beneath  a  Methodist  chapel  in  Dean  Street. 
There  a  friend  found  him  among  casks  and  sawdust. 
"Come  down,  facilis  descensus  Averni!"  was  the 
greeting  he  received.  "  You  have  Methodism  over 
your  head,  Colton  ;  I  wonder  your  wine  does  not  turn 
sour,  belonging  as  it  does  to  a  son  of  the  Church." 
But  Colton  pointed  out  that  wine  is  reconciling  and 
that  the  doxies  never  conflict  in  a  cellar. 

Under  Soho's  *^  sorry  spire "  Colton  wrote  his 
"  Lacon,"  of  which  the  first  volume  appeared  in  1820. 
It  consists  of  short  reflections  and  opinions  on  the 
conduct  of  private  and  public  life.  He  wrote  it  on 
scraps  of  paper  and  blank  sides  of  letters.  His  room 
boasted  no  carpet ;  a  deal  table,  a  few  rickety  chairs, 
and  a  broken  inkpot  placed  in  a  tea-saucer  were  its 
furniture.  Alaric  Watts,  who  went  there,  says  that  it 
was  a  Grub  Street  author's  garret  whose  inmate,  how- 
ever, bore  the  stamp  of  a  gentleman,  and  could 
produce  a  bottle  of  wine  whose  perfume  filled 
the  room. 

Colton  is  said  to  have  been  too  much  indebted  for 
his  Laconics  to  Bacon's  "  Essays "  and  William 
Burdon's  "  Materials  for  Thinking,"  yet  the  book  is 
not  ordinary.  Many  maxims  in  "  Lacon "  should 
have  been  useful  to  their  author,  but  his  own  bark  was 
ill-steered  to  the  end.  He  had  often  associated  with 
Thurtell,  the  murderer  of  Weare,  and  when  the  Vicar 
of  Kew  suddenly  disappeared  from  Soho  at  the  time 
of  the  murder,  it  was  feared  that  he  had  himself  fallen 
a  victim  to  the  gang.  He  had  only  gambled  with 
them,  and  was  now  in  flight  from  his  creditors.  He 
was  next  seen  in  Paris,  unkempt  and  careworn.    When 


142  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

his  life  could  only  be  prolonged  by  a  surgical  operation 
the  philosopher  of  "  Lacon  "  grimly  decided  to  end  it, 
and  he  blew  out  his  brains  in  the  house  of  a  friend  at 
Fontainebleau.  He  had  been  badly  cast  for  a  part  in 
the  drama  of  life,  but  he  knew  good  wine  when  he 
tasted  it,  and  good  poetry  when  he  read  it.  And  he 
was  wise  for  others. 

It  has  been  given  to  the  Londoner  of  to-day  to 
witness  the  greatest  evisceration  of  the  town  that  has 
been  known  since  the  Fire  of  1666.  A  little  more 
than  a  dozen  years  ago  the  Clare  Market  region  was 
a  humming  neighbourhood,  full  of  race  and  tradition, 
a  secret  labyrinth  without  omnibuses  or  newsboys. 
All  the  traditions  of  piecemeal  change,  casualness,  and 
compromise  which  have  made  London  picturesque 
were  flouted  in  the  Kingsway  and  Aldwych  scheme. 
The  surfaces  of  the  new  arteries  are  now  the 
palimpsest  of  a  populous  quarter,  of  which  St.  Mary's 
and  St.  Clement's  churches  are  the  gracious  relics. 
The  site  of  Booksellers'  Row  is  defined  by  the  churches, 
but  few  Londoners  could  now  locate  the  Strand 
entries  of  Lower  Drury  Lane,  Catherine  Street,  New- 
castle Street,  or  trace  the  line  of  Wych  Street,  which 
ten  years  ago  might  recall  Theodore  Hook's  remark 
that  he  never  passed  through  it  without  being  blocked 
up  by  a  hearse,  a  coal-wagon,  a  mud-cart,  and  the 
Lord  Mayor's  carriage. 

All  through  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries 
these  streets,  with  Clare  Market  for  their  hub,  seethed 
with  humble  London  life.  The  tall  old  houses,  built 
to  last,  had  their  picturesque  moods.  Especially  in 
a  late  autumn  afternoon,  when  the  setting  sun  flashed 
on  the  higher  windows,  and  brought  out  bits  of  red 
brick  and  slopes  of  red  tile,  these  doomed  streets  in 
which  generations  of  Londoners  had  been  born  seemed 


LANE  AND   LABYRINTH  143 

to  plead  for  respite.  Nowhere  were  you  more  in  the 
interior  of  London.  In  summer  evenings  on  the 
smooth  asphalted  roadways  the  girls  danced  round 
barrel-organs,  the  boys  rushed  up  and  down  on 
roller-skates,  and  the  mothers  gossiped  on  the  narrow 
pavements.  On  a  winter  afternoon  the  funeral  cortege 
of  a  publican  would  block  the  street  for  hours, 
developing  pomp  and  public  approval.  And  in  all 
this  intricate  daily  pettiness  you  were  conscious  of 
the  centuries  and  the  generations. 

Clare  Market  had  been  an  old  family  affair.  Its 
founder  was  John  Holies,  second  Earl  of  Clare  and 
Baron  of  Haughton,  who  married  Elizabeth,  eldest 
daughter  of  Lord  Vere.  Hence  the  names,  Holies 
Street,  Clare  Market,  Haughton  Street,  and  Vere 
Street.  Other  family  names  and  titles  were  trans- 
ferred to  Denzil,  Stanhope,  Sheffield,  and  Gilbert 
Streets.  In  1661  the  earl  obtained  the  grant  of  a 
market,  which  long  served  an  aristocratic  neighbour- 
hood in  whose  annals  shine  many  names.  The  Earl 
of  Craven  became  its  hero,  the  exiled  Queen  of 
Bohemia  its  cynosure,  Orator  Henley  its  buffoon. 

Hogarth  came  to  be  snug  at  the  Shepherd  and  His 
Flock  Club,  whose  weekly  gatherings  of  artists  were 
held  at  the  Bull's  Head  Tavern.  For  this  club  he 
engraved  a^ilver  tankard  with  a  shepherd  and  his  flock. 

Some  fifty  years  earlier  Dr.  Radcliffe  took  his 
glass  at  the  *^  Bull's  Head,"  and,  taking  it,  heard  the 
result  of  a  shipping  enterprise  to  the  East  Indies 
into  which  he  had  been  drawn  by  his  friend  Better- 
ton,  the  tragedian,  who  name  is  now  borne  by  a 
street  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  returning  ship 
was  captured  by  the  French  within  sight  of  England. 
By  this  disaster  Betterton  lost  his  entire  savings  and 
was  ruined.     But  Radcliffe,  on  hearing  of  the  new^s, 


144  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

filled  up  his  glass  and  made  a  remark  singularly  like 
that  which  is  attributed  to  Scott  at  the  time  of  the 
Constable  failure ;  he  said  that  his  loss  of  six  or 
eight  thousand  pounds  was  not  a  great  matter — "  he 
had  no  more  to  do  but  to  go  up  so  many  pairs  of 
stairs  to  make  himself  whole  again."  He  lived  to 
bequeath  for  the  building  of  the  Radcliffe  Library, 
that  glory  of  Oxford,  the  sum  of  ;^4o,ooo. 

There  were  many  quiet,  unexpected,  precincts 
around  Clare  Market.  One  was  Craven  Buildings, 
whose  row  of  quiet  buff  houses  occupied  precisely 
the  fork  of  Aldwych.  Here  at  No.  17  had  lived 
Dr.  Arne,  who  personally  published  his  music  to 
Milton's  "Comus"  from  this  house,  and  here,  I  have 
no  doubt,  he  brooded  over  the  singularly  insulting 
description  of  himself  by  Mortimer,  the  painter  who 
said  that  Arne's  '^eyes  looked  like  two  oysters  just 
opened  for  sauce,  put  upon  an  oval  side-dish  of 
beetroot."  The  scene-painter,  Frank  Hayman,  also 
lived  here  while  he  was  engaged  at  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  and  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  who  is  buried  in  the 
cloisters  of  Westminster  Abbey,  and  Hannah  Prit- 
chard,  who  has  a  memorial  in  Poet's  Corner.  Still 
later  Madame  Vestris  was  a  tenant ;  and  Elliston,  the 
actor  and  manager.  Lamb's  "joyousest  of  once  em- 
bodied spirits,"  lived  in  this  blind  alley,  which  I  often 
entered  for  the  pleasure  of  being  turned  back. 

Qjie  of  the  straightest  and  longest  streets  was 
Stanhope  Street  It  ran  between  and  parallel  to  Vere 
Street  and  Drury  Lane.  The  new  Kingsway  has  bi- 
sected it,  and  the  remainders  on  either  side  have  been 
demolished.  It  led  towards  Great  and  Little  Wild 
Streets,  named  after  old  Wild  House,  the  home  of  a 
duchess  in  Charles  I's  reign  and  of  an  ambassador  in 
the  next.     In  1903  the  crowbars  were  at  work  on  the 


LANE   AND   LABYRINTH  145 

old  Baptist  chapel  ;in  Little  Wild  Street,  in  which  an 
annual  service  of  thanksgiving  and  of  allusion  to  the 
Great  Storm  of  1703  was  kept  up  for  two  cen- 
turies. This  storm  had  spread  death  and  destruction 
through  London.  Two  thousand  stacks  of  chimneys 
were  blown  down.  The  damage  in  the  City  alone 
was  computed  at  nearly  two  millions.  Many  people 
believed  that  the  war  of  the  elements  was  accompanied 
by  an  earthquake.  In  the  Thames  a  number  of  ships 
were  driven  down-stream,  and  over  five  hundred 
wherries  were  lost.  In  the  sermons  preached  at 
Little  Wild  Street  these  happenings  were  recalled, 
possibly  with  embellishments.  Of  "special  pro- 
vidences" there  were  hundreds.  A  house  in  the 
Strand,  containing  fourteen  persons,  collapsed,  and  no 
one  was  hurt.  In  Poultry  two  boys  were  lying  in  a 
garret ;  a  huge  stack  of  chimneys  falling  in  crashed 
their  way  through  their  floor  and  all  the  other  floors 
down  to  the  cellar,  followed  by  the  bed  with  the  boys 
in  it,  who  awoke  in  the  nether  regions  merely  won- 
dering how  they  came  there. 

Here  and  there  the  Clare  Market  demolitions 
exhaled  a  last  fragrance.  Amid  dust  and  debris  I 
remember  seeing  this  damaged  inscription  on  a 
stuccoed  wall  :  YPOL.  These  letters  were  part  of 
the  name.  Maypole  Alley.  This  little  lane  had  led 
down  to  the  Maypole  in  the  Strand. 

What's  not  destroy'd  by  Time's  devouring  hand  ? 
Where's  Troy,  and  where's  the  Maypole  in  the  Strand  ? 

The  improvements  extended  across  Holborn  to 
Kingsgate  Street.  A  fire  brigade  lamp-post  stood  at 
the  foot  of  the  lane,  oddly  perpetuating  the  note 
of    urgency    which     belonged    to    the    corner    when 


146  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Mrs.  Gamp's  clients  ran  up  the  street  looking  for 
pebbles  with  which  to  assail  her  window. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  vestiges — not  finally 
destroyed  until  this  year — was  the  old  horseshoe 
archway  on  the  west  side  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  lead- 
ing into  what  was  yesterday  Sardinia  Street.  With  it 
disappeared  the  two  fine  old  houses  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields  under  which  it  has  bent  its  sturdy  back  during 
two  centuries.  Shakespeare  never  saw  this  arch,  but 
Bacon  may  have  seen  it  planned.  Only  two  years 
after  Shakespeare's  death,  when  newly  known  as 
Lord  Verulam,  he  was  concerned  in  that  urbanization 
of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  by  Inigo  Jones  in  which  this 
sinister  little  archway  had  its  part.  Twenty  years 
ago  you  passed  through  it  from  the  desolate  exclu- 
siveness  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  (the  garden  was  not 
opened  to  the  public  till  1895),  into  the  populous  dirt 
and  colour  of  the  whole  Clare  Market  region  ;  either 
way  that  squat  and  grudging  archway  led  from  one 
London  world  to  another. 

And  in  its  gloom  lurked  its  own  portentous 
memories. 

For  the  district  was  long  a  centre  of  Roman 
Catholic  life.  It  may  have  had  this  character  as  early 
as  1603  when  Guy  Fawkes  took  a  house  "  in  the 
fields  beyond  Clement's  Inn."  There  the  Gunpowder 
Plotters  met  to  take  their  preliminary  oath  of  secrecy, 
which  they  solemnly  administered  to  each  other, 
"kneeling  upon  their  knees,  with  their  hands  laid 
upon  a  primer."  Catesby  then  disclosed  his  plans,  and 
the  party  went  upstairs,  where,  if  one  accept  Winter's 
story,  they  received  the  sacrament  from  Father 
Garnett.  If  it  be  true  that  the  house  which  witnessed 
this  dark  pact  was  in  Butcher  Row,  as  one  account 
declares,  it  follows  that  the  most  desperate  of  crimes 


ST.    MARY-LE-STRAND   CHURCH 

THE    PALIMPSEST    OK    A    POPULOUS    QUARTER    OF    WHICH    ST.    MARY'S    AND 
ST.    CLKMENTS    CHURCHES    ARE    THE    GKACIOUS    RELICS      (p.   I42) 


LANE   AND   LABYRINTH  147 

was  planned  and  ^'  consecrated "  on  the  ground  now 
covered  by  the  Law  Courts — one  of  the  many  topo- 
graphical coincidences  in  London's  story. 

While  I  write  portions  of  the  Sardinian  chapel 
and  arch  are  mingling  their  dust  in  a  final  ruin.  Nor  is 
it  the  first  time  that  arch  and  chapel  have  suffered 
together.  A  medallion  in  the  British  Museum  pre- 
serves the  scene  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  on  the  night 
of  II  December,  1688 — one  of  the  most  terrible  ever 
seen  in  London.  On  the  nth  King  James  had  flung 
the  Great  Seal  into  the  river,  and  had  fled  his  capital : 
anarchy  threatened,  and  every  passion  was  loosed. 
Macaulay  has  described  the  scenes  of  that  night,  when 
this  archway  became  a  gully  of  human  wrath,  fear, 
and  fanaticism.  In  the  medallion  it  is  plainly  to  be 
seen,  though  inaccurately  drawn,  with  its  two  flanking 
passages.  Yet  this  outbreak  did  not  hold  so  many 
terrors  as  the  years  of  slow  persecution  in  which  the 
archway  saw  trembling  priests  and  furtive  spies  creep 
through  its  shadow. 

In  the  Gordon  Riots  of  1780,  the  chapel  of  St. 
Anselm  and  Cecilia  fell  a  prey  to  the  mob.  Then 
happier  times  dawned,  and  through  this  arch  of 
memories  came  Fanny  Burney  to  her  wedding. 
Benjamin  Franklin  passed  under  it  often  when  he 
worked  at  Watts's  printing-office  in  Wild  Court.  The 
spot  became  a  place  of  reconciliation  when  the  Red 
Mass  came  to  be  celebrated  in  the  Sardinian  chapel, 
and  was  attended  by  Roman  Catholic  members  of  the 
Bench  and  Bar  on  the  opening  of  the  Law  Courts 
after  the  Long  Vacation. 

Nearer  to  our  day  than  these  old  unhappy  far-off 
conflicts  is  a  drama  of  crime  which  has  left  its  mark 
on  nineteenth-century  literature.  It  was  Theodore 
Hook  who   wrote    the    oft-quoted    lines   (they  were 


mS  a   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

once  quoted  at  a  dinner-party  by  Browning,  who  was 
extremely  annoyed  when  another  guest  helped  him 
out)  :— 

His  throat  they  cut  from  ear  to  ear, 

His  brains  they  battered  in, 
His  name  was  Mr.  William  Weare, 

He  lived  at  Lyon's  Inn. 

Lyon's  Inn  stood  between  Wych  Street  and  Holywell 
Street,  its  last  relic  being  (as  I  seem  to  remember)  a 
walled-up  door  in  the  latter  street,  adorned  with  two 
lions'  heads.  The  above  lines,  which  have  also  been 
attributed  to  John  Wilson  Croker,  were  part  of  a 
mock  Catnach  ballad  on  the  murder  of  Weare  by  his 
friend  John  Thurtell  in  the  autumn  of  1823. 

Thurtell,  conceiving  himself  to  have  been  over- 
reached by  Weare  in  gambling  transactions,  planned 
to  murder  him,  and  to  rob  him  of  a  considerable 
"  private  bank "  which  he  was  known  to  carry  in 
the  pocket  of  an  under-waistcoat.  He  was  callously 
assisted  by  a  Mr.  Probert,  a  spirit-dealer,  who  had  a 
cottage  in  Gill's  Hill  Lane,  near  Elstree,  in  Hertford- 
shire, off  the  St.  Albans  Road.  Thurtell  decided  that 
this  neighbourhood  should  be  the  scene  of  his  in- 
tended attack  on  Weare.  He  had  visited  Probert 
there  many  times,  and  knew  the  surrounding  lanes 
and  fields  intimately. 

On  the  evening  of  23  October,  Thurtell  and  a  man 
named  Hunt  met  Weare  at  Rexworthy's  Billiard 
Rooms,  in  Spring  Gardens,  and  Thurtell  asked  him 
if  he  would  go  down  to  Elstree  for  two  or  three 
days'  shooting.  Weare  accepted  this  invitation,  and 
on  the  following  day,  in  his  chambers  at  Lyon's  Inn, 
packed  up  some  clothes  in  a  green  carpet-bag,  together 
with  a  backgammon-board,  and  equipped  himself  with 
a  double-barrelled  gun.     While  he  was  thus  engaged, 


LANE  AND   LABYRINTH  149 

Thurtell  and  Hunt  were  buying  a  pair  of  pocket-pistols 
at  a  pawnbroker's  in  Marylebone.  This  done,  they 
went  to  the  "Coach  and  Horses/'  in  Conduit  Street, 
where  they  met  Probert.  Thurtell  arranged  to  drive 
down  to  Elstree  in  a  gig  and  to  pick  up  Weare,  by 
appointment,  at  the  end  of  Oxford  Street.  He  wished 
Hunt  and  Probert  to  drive  down  in  another  gig,  and 
if  they  passed  him  Hunt  was  to  wait  at  a  certain  spot 
not  far  from  the  lane  leading  to  the  cottage.  The 
circumstances  of  the  drive  into  Hertfordshire  can  be 
passed  over,  and  it  needs  little  imagination  to  picture 
the  horror  of  the  dark  Elstree  lane,  heavy  with  the 
scent  of  autumn  leaves,  which  flew  from  the  feet  of 
pursuer  and  pursued,  and  the  struggle  in  the  dim 
light  thrown  by  the  lamps  of  Thurtell's  gig. 

The  clumsy  tactics  of  the  murderers  proved  their 
undoing.  Probert,  Hunt,  and  Thurtell  were  arrested 
as  a  precaution,  and  inquiry  became  hot.  Hunt,  in 
his  alarm,  told  the  magistrates  where  the  body  would 
be  found,  and  Probert,  who  had  never  known  Weare, 
though  he  knew  what  his  fate  was  to  be,  made  a  clean 
breast  of  the  facts.  In  the  result  he  was  called  as  the 
principal  witness  against  Thurtell  and  Hunt,  who  were 
tried  for  the  murder  at  Hertford  Assizes.  They  were 
found  guilty,  and  both  condemned  to  death. 

The  most  famous  literary  relic  of  Thurtell's  trial  is 
to  be  found  in  the  writings  of  Thomas  Carlyle.  His 
use  of  the  word  "  gig  "  as  a  synonym  of  respectability 
had  its  origin  in  the  following  dialogue  between 
counsel  and  a  witness  :  *^  What  sort  of  person  was 
Mr.  Weare  ? "  *'  He  was  always  a  respectable  person." 
''  What  do  you  mean  by  respectable!?  "  "  He  kept  a 
gig."  Carlyle's  fierce  humour  seized  on  this,  and 
afterwards,  when  he  was  storming  at  respectabilities 
and  unrealities,  gigs  were  not  far  from  his  mind.     The 


t5<5  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

principal  allusion  is,  I  think,  in  his  essay  on  Richter, 
but  "gigs"  were  henceforth  among  his  literary  pro- 
perties, and  he  uses  the  word  even  in  the  grandiose 
conclusion  of  his  ''French  Revolution." 

Edward  FitzGerald's  disposition  to  see  good  in 
Thurtell  was  perhaps  shared  by  George  Borrow,  who 
portrays  him  minutely  in  "  Lavengro  "  and  makes  him 
"  King  of  the  Flashmen  "  in  "  The  Zincali." 

Archbishop  Whately  did  not  disdain  to  discuss 
Thurtell's  character  in  one  of  his  annotations  to 
Bacon,  where  he  wrote :  "  When  Thurtell,  the  mur- 
derer, was  executed  there  was  a  shout  of  derision 
raised  against  the  phrenologists  for  saying  that  his 
organ  of  benevolence  was  large.  But  they  replied 
that  there  was  also  large  destructiveness  and  i  moral 
deficiency  which  would  account  for  a  man  goaded  to 
rage  (by  being  cheated  of  almost  all  that  he  had  had 
by  the  man  he  killed)  committing  that  act.  It  is  a 
remarkable  confirmation  of  their  view  that  a  gentleman 
who  visited  the  prison  where  Thurtell  was  confined 
(shortly  after  the  execution)  found  the  jailers,  etc.,  full 
of  pity  and  affection  for  him.  They  said  he  was  a 
kind,  good-hearted  fellow,  so  obliging  and  friendly 
that  they  never  had  a  prisoner  whom  they  so  much 
regretted.  And  such  seems  to  have  been  his  general 
character,  when  not  influenced  at  once  by  the  desire 
of  revenge  and  of  gain." 

Nor  was  a  poet  wanting  to  invest  the  crime  with 
hues  of  night  and  horror.  In  lines  not  unworthy  of 
Poe,  the  Rev.  John  Mitford  described  it  in  the  terms  of 
a  weird  owlishness  : — 

Owl,  that  lovest  the  midnight  sky, 

Where  the  casements  blaze 

With  the  faggot's  rays, 
Look,  oh  !  look  !    What  secst  thou  there  ? 


LANE   AND   LABYRINTH  151 

Owl,  what's  this 

That  snort  and  hiss — 
And  why  do  thy  feathers  shiver  and  stare  ? 

'Tis  he,  'tis  he — 

He  sits  'mid  the  three, 
And  a  breathless  Woman  is  on  the  stair. 


An  interesting  circumstance  about  these  lines  is  that 
they  were  the  last  which  that  strange  being,  Beau 
Brummell,  copied  into  his  poetry  album. 

It  is  said  that  Thurtell's  fate  appealed  so  strongly  to 
his  friends  of  the  prize-ring  that  a  serious  plan  was 
laid  to  rescue  him  at  the  last  moment,  and  that  this 
would  in  all  probability  have  been  carried  out  if  the 
sum  of  £soo  necessary  for  the  hire  of  men  could  have 
been  obtained  from  Thurtell's  family.  The  pity  lavished 
on  the  condemned  man  was  scornfully  referred  to  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  '*  Journal."  Yet  Scott  himself, 
in  1828,  took  the  trouble  to  visit  Gill's  Hill  Lane  and 
to  write  his  comments  on  the  crime  which  had  made 
it  infamous.  In  a  madcap  letter  to  Bernard  Barton, 
Charles  Lamb  exclaims  apropos  of  nothing  :  "  I  can't 
distinguish  veal  from  mutton — nothing  interests  me — 
'tis  twelve  o'clock,  andThurtell  is  just  now  coming  out 
upon  the  New  Drop." 

In  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  I  once  received  a  curious 
impression  of  London's  small  concealed  antiquities. 
In  his  "  Book  for  a  Rainy  Day  "  John  Thomas  Smith 
talks  of  the  old  Willow  Walk  along  the  Thames  at 
Millbank.  Here,  he  says,  "  on  many  a  glowing  even- 
ing Gainsborough,  accompanied  by  his  friend  Collins, 
amused  himself  by  sketching  docks  and  nettles,  which 
afforded  the  Wynants  and  Cuyp-like  effects  to  the 
foregrounds  of  his  rich  and  glowing  landscapes." 
This  Collins,  he  goes  on  to  say,  was  a  modeller  of 
rustic  subjects  for  tablets  of  chimney-pieces  ^^  in  vogue 


l$9  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

about  seventy  years  back."  Smith  wrote  in  1830,  or 
thereabouts.  He  adds  that  CoUins  usually  took  his 
subjects  from  "-^sop's  Fables/'  and  that  his  work  may 
here  and  there  be  met  with  in  old  houses  :  *M  recollect 
one,  that  of  the  Bear  and  Beehives,  in  the  back 
drawing-room  of  the  house  formerly  the  mansion  of 
the  Duke  of  Ancaster,  on  the  western  side  of  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  this  mantelpiece  might  still 
remain,  and  my  whim  was  to  find  it.  Lindsey 
House  is  now  divided  into  two  houses,  each  occupied 
by  firms  of  solicitors.  The  Bear  and  the  Beehive 
mantelpiece  might  be  in  either  No.  59  or  No.  60.  It 
seemed  a  little  stupid  to  interrupt,  even  for  a  moment, 
the  legal  labours  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  But  I  found 
the  mantelpiece,  and  I  do  not  know  who  was  the  more 
interested  ;  I  to  find  it  in  a  business  office,  or  the 
occupants  of  the  room  to  find  it  in  a  book.  But  there 
it  was,  fulfilling  expectations — a  mantelpiece  in  use. 
There  is  a  fascination  in  such  time-defying  trifles.  1 
like  to  look  up,  in  passing,  at  the  old  dated  rain-pipes 
in  Chancery  Lane,  inscribed  "  I779-"  In  Bedford 
Row  there  are  water-pipes  as  old  as  the  street,  bearing 
such  dates  as  1727,  and  in  Staple  Inn  you  may  see  a 
cistern  which  was  in  use  before  the  Restoration.  The 
eighteenth-century  torch-extinguishers  outside  houses 
in  Berkeley  Square  and  neighbouring  streets,  and  in 
Gower  Street,  are  equally  remindful  of  the  fact  that 
man's  smallest  chattels  survive  man. 

In  the  book  I  have  quoted  Smith  has  this  curious 
passage,  which  relates  to  the  year  1787  : — 

"It  is  rather  extraordinary  that  mimicry  with  me 
was  not  confined  to  the  voice,  for  I  could  in  many 
instances  throw  my  features  into  a  resemblance  of  the 
person  whose  voice  1  imitated.     Indeed,  so  ridiculous 


LANE  AND   LABYRINTH  153 

were  several  of  these  gesticulations,  that  I  remember 
diverting  one  of  my  companions  by  endeavouring  to 
look  like  the  various  lion-headed  knockers  as  we 
passed  through  a  long  street.  Skilful,  however,  as  I 
was  declared  to  be  in  some  of  my  attempts,  I  could 
not  in  any  way  manage  the  dolphin  knockers  in  Dean 
Street,  Fetter  Lane.  Their  ancient  and  fish-like 
appearance  were  certainly  many  fathoms  beyond  my 
depth,  and  as  much  by  reason  of  my  being  destitute  of 
gills,  and  the  nose  of  that  finny  tribe  extending  nearly 
in  width  to  its  tremendous  mouth,  I  was  obhged  to 
give  up  the  attempt." 

He  adds  that  when  he  first  knew  Dean  Street  seven- 
teen out  of  its  twenty-four  houses  were  adorned  with 
these  brass  dolphin  knockers.  Well,  forty-two  years 
passed,  and  on  17  May,  1829,  Smith,  who  had 
become  a  staid  official  at  the  British  Museum,  had 
the  curiosity  to  visit  Dean  Street  to  see  how  his  old 
"  brazen-faced  acquaintances  "  were  getting  on,  and  to 
his  sorrow  he  found  Dean  Street  was  ^*  nearly  as 
deficient  of  door-knockers  as  a  churchyard  is  of  its 
earliest  tombstones,  for  out  of  seventeen  only  three 
remained." 

Another  forty  years  passed  slowly  over  Dean  Street, 
when  a  correspondent  of  "  Notes  and  Queries," 
interested  in  Smith's  story,  was  moved  to  make  a 
journey  of  discovery.  He  found  only  one  dolphin 
knocker  left,  on  the  door  of  No.  6. 

Thirty  more  years  went  by,  and  I  in  turn  joined 
the  immemorial  lunatic  procession  to  Little  Dean 
Street  to  look  for  dolphin  knockers.  But  the 
Methuselah  of  1869  was  gone,  and  the  houses  themselves 
had  followed  their  ornaments.  I  gave  up  an  hour  to 
knocker-hunting  in  the  neighbourhood,  but  never  a 
dolphin  appeared,  though  many  were  old  and  beautiful. 


154  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

There  was  a  lion's  head  and  ring  knocker  in  Gunpowder 
Alley,  and  others  in  Hind  Court.  No.  3  Red  Lion 
Court  had  a  very  good  knocker,  into  the  design  of 
which  was  introduced  a  bat  with  outstretched  wings. 
An  old  knocker  of  No.  9  Bell's  Buildings,  Salisbury 
Square,  was  adorned  with  the  figure  of  a  naked  boy 
playing  on  a  pipe. 

In  this  part  of  London  my  affection  is  given  to 
Chancery  Lane,  and  particularly  to  the  spot  at  which 
the  "  Academy "  office  faced  the  great  gateway  of 
Lincoln's  Inn  during  the  years  1896-1903.  Embodied 
in  that  gateway,  the  Past  looked  us  gravely  in  the  face. 
In  a  few  strides  we  passed  into  the  gloom  of  a  portal 
that  was  standing  fifty  years  before  Shakespeare  was 
born.  On  wet  days  a  passing  "  Favourite  "  omnibus 
splashed  mud  on  the  two  buildings  impartially.  The 
Chancery  Lane  mud  is  itself  antique  ;  for  in  the  reign 
of  Edward  I  the  lane  was  a  noted  quagmire.  When 
it  became  impassable  to  knight,  monk,  and  citizen, 
John  Breton,  Custos  of  London,  barred  it  up 
altogether.  Or  it  may  be  that  the  Bishop  of  Chichester 
desired  privacy.  He  lived  where  Chichester  Rents 
now  offers  a  short  cut  into  New  Square,  and  it  was  he 
who  maintained  the  bar  for  ten  years.  When  asked  to 
explain  he  threw  the  responsibility  on  the  sheriff. 
That  gentleman  found  it  expedient  to  remove  the 
obstruction,  but  he  left  the  mud  to  be  dealt  with  by 
posterity.     And  we  are  still   dealing  with  it. 

The  gateway  was  built  by  Sir  Thomas  Lovel  in  1518. 
Plain  in  its  majesty,  this  is  one  of  the  treasures  of 
London.  Even  its  oaken  doors  are  centuries  old,  and 
Americans  sometimes  offer  five-pound  notes  for  one  of 
its  bolts  or  fittings.  Pass  by  it  at  night,  when  high 
and  small  the  one  gas-jet  flickers  over  the  great  arch, 
and  the  dark  mass  of  the  building  rises  through  the 


LANE  AND   LABYRINTH  155 

unusual  gloom,  and  you  will  gain  a  sense  of  London's 
multi-peopled  past. 

Assuredly  Shakespeare  passed  this  way.  His  patron, 
the  Earl  of  Southampton,  lived  at  the  head  of  the  lane. 
The  wall  of  Southampton  House  ran  up  the  east  side 
to  Holborn,  and  on  it  Gerard  botanized  for  "  Whit- 
low grasse  "  or  "  the  English  Nailewoort,"  which,  he 
says,  "groweth  plentifully  upon  the  backe  wall  in 
Chancerie  Lane  belonging  to  the  Earle  of  South- 
ampton, in  the  suburbs  of  London." 

Where  Shakespeare  walked,  two  of  his  finest  com- 
mentators pitched  their  tents  afterwards.  In  1809 
Charles  Lamb,  after  seeing  his  "  Specimens  of  the 
Dramatic  Poets"  published  by  Longmans,  lived  for 
a  few  months  at  No.  34  Southampton  Buildings, 
Chancery  Lane  ;  and  William  Hazlitt  went  thither  to 
prepare  his  Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of 
the  Age  of  Elizabeth.  It  was  here  that  Lamb 
addressed  to  Manning,  then  in  China,  the  question  : 
"  How  do  you  like  the  Mandarinesses  ?  Are  you  on 
some  little  footing  with  any  of  them  ? "  But  the 
ground  is  especially  Hazlitt's.  Here,  lodging  with 
Mr.  Walker,  a  tailor,  he  began  his  unhappy  philander- 
ings  with  Sarah  Walker.  He  spent  his  evenings  at  the 
Southampton  Tavern,  now  rebuilt  out  of  his  know- 
ledge, and  sketched  the  company  in  his  masterly  essay, 
^'  On  Coffee-house  Politicians."  He  does  not  spare  to 
ridicule  the  ignorance  and  Philistinism  of  the  fre- 
quenters. ^^  What  would  a  linen-draper  from  Holborn 
think  if  I  were  to  ask  him  after  the  clerk  of  St. 
Andrew's,  the  immortal,  the  forgotten  Webster  ? " 
The  most  romantic  digression  from  common  talk 
and  fruitless  arguments  that  he  enjoyed  here  was  a 
discussion  on  the  comparative  merits  of  Gray  and 
Byron  as  poets. 


iS6  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Nothing  in  London — as  I  have  known  London — is 
more  lost  and  forgotten  than  the  small,  complete,  and 
beautiful  precinct  of  the  Rolls  Chapel  on  the  east  side 
of  Chancery  Lane.  It  disappeared  in  1892.  The  eye 
lingered,  the  heart  knew  itself  again,  at  that  open  arch- 
way giving  into  a  cobbled  courtyard  and  a  chapel 
quiet. 

In  Rolls  Yard  for  many  years  a  great  Scotchman 
dispensed  English  justice  with  purity  and  dignity  that 
have  never  been  surpassed.  The  place  was  a  little 
legal  kingdom  by  itself.  It  contained  the  Rolls  Chapel, 
the  Rolls  Court  House,  and  the  residence  of  the  Master 
of  the  Rolls.  As  a  seat  of  justice  it  was  never  more 
famous  than  under  Sir  William  Grant,  between  1801 
and  1817.  Sir  William  was  descended  from  the  Grants 
of  Baldarnie,  and  was  a  native  of  Elchies,  in  Moray. 
He  had  begun  his  legal  career  in  Canada,  but  returned 
to  England  to  become  a  great  Parliamentarian,  and 
the  trusted  friend  of  Pitt.  In  Parliament  he  triumphed 
in  a  very  unusual  manner — by  severe  and  unassailable 
logic.  Lord  Brougham  said  of  Grant's  oratory  in  the 
House  that  it  was  "  from  the  first  to  the  last,  through- 
out, pure  reason  and  the  triumph  of  pure  reason." 

In  Rolls  Yard  Grant  worked,  slept,  and  worshipped. 
His  was  the  strong  simple  mind  that  knows  how  to 
isolate  itself  from  the  infinite  solicitations  of  London, 
and  by  many  refusals  to  win  public  observation  and  an 
acknowledged  identity  with  the  very  order  and  topo- 
graphy of  the  town.  There,  discarding  every  art  of  dis- 
play, he  listened  in  unbroken  silence  to  the  case  before 
him  until  all  had  been  said  in  advocacy.  Then 
came  a  deeply  expectant  silence,  for  it  was  a  certainty 
that  the  judgment  about  to  be  pronounced  would  be  a 
marvel  of  clear  thinking  and  apt  expression.  Charles 
Butler's  description    of  Grant's  judicial    eloquence   is 


CLARE    MARKET 

-L    THROUGH    THE    i8tH    AND    igTH    CENTURIES    THESE    STREETS,    WITH    CLARE 
-MARKET    FOR    THEIR    HUB,    SEETHED    WITH    HU-MBI-E    LONDON    LIFE      (v.    1 42) 


LANE   AND   LABYRINTH  157 

fine.  "  In  hearing  him  it  was  impossible  not  to  think 
of  the  character  given  by  Menelaus,  by  Homer,  or 
rather  by  Pope,  *  He  spoke  no  more  than  just  the 
thing  he  ought.'  But  Sir  William  did  much  more  ;  in 
decompounding  and  analysing  an  immense  mass  of 
confused  and  contradictory  matter  and  forming  clear 
and  unquestionable  results,  the  sight  of  his  mind  was 
infinite.  His  exposition  of  Acts,  and  of  the  con- 
sequences deducible  from  them,  his  discussion  of 
former  decisions,  and  showing  their  legitimate  weight 
and  authority,  and  their  real  bearings  upon  the  point 
in  question,  were  above  praise  ;  but  the  whole  was 
done  with  such  admirable  ease  and  simplicity,  that 
while  real  judges  felt  its  supreme  excellence,  the 
herd  of  hearers  believed  that  they  could  have  done 
the  same. 

*^  Never  was  the  merit  of  Dr.  Johnson's  definition  of 
a  perfect  style,  '  proper  words  in  proper  places,'  more 
sensibly  felt  than  it  was  by  those  who  listened  to  Sir 
William  Grant.  The  charm  of  it  was  indescribable  ; 
its  effect  on  the  hearers  was  that  which  Milton 
describes,  when  he  paints  Adam  listening  to  the  angel 
after  the  angel  has  ceased  to  speak.  Often  and  often 
has  the  reminiscent  beheld  the  Bar  listening  at  the 
close  of  a  judgment  given  by  Sir  William  with  the 
same  feeling  of  admiration  at  what  they  had  heard  and 
the  same  regret  that  it  was  heard  no  more." 

These  Rhadamanthine  judgments  were  delivered 
under  conditions  which  would  stagger  the  Law  to-day. 
Commonly,  they  were  reserved  till  the  evening,  by 
candle-light,  in  the  stuffy  little  court.  But  first  Grant 
had  dined.  He  no  more  scamped  his  dinner  than  his 
cases.  A  bottle  of  Madeira  would  imperil  the  wits  of 
most  Chancery  judges  to-day.  Sir  William  drank  his 
bottle  of  Madeira  at  dinner,  and  after  dinner  he  drank 


158  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

a  bottle  of  port.  Then  he  was  ready  to  "  decompound 
evidence." 

Chancery  Lane  remains  legal  from  end  to  end. 
Most  Londoners  enter  it  only  at  a  crisis  of  their  lives. 
You  see  a  little  party  in  mourning,  gathered  like  birds 
on  the  pavement,  and  you  guess  their  errand.  It 
touches  the  imagination  to  remember  that  in  the 
immensity  of  London  every  day  brings  anxiety  and 
crisis  to  a  large  number  of  Londoners.  Of  these 
pangs  nothing  is  seen  in  the  town's  visage,  no  ripple  or 
sharp  interruption  in  its  vast  usualness.  To  ho>v  many 
sufferers  has  this  thought  been  bitter  1  To  how  many 
has  it  brought  a  secret  joy  1  Shakespeare  knew  the 
stupendous  inertia  of  a  great  city  in  an  hour  of  catas- 
trophe. He  makes  the  plotters  of  Caesar's  death  pause 
in  their  debate  to  dispute  the  exact  point  of  the  horizon 
at  which  the  sun  will  presently  rise  on  their  bloody 
work,  and  suddenly  we  are  aware  of  the  sleep  and  un- 
consciousness of  Rome's  millions. 

In  all  writings  on  London  there  must  be  the  fallacy 
of  generalization,  for  we  hear  only  the  general  heart- 
beat. And  nowhere  do  we  hear  it  plainer  than  at  this 
populous  corner,  where  Temple  Bar  once  seemed  to 
divide  the  affairs  of  the  east  and  west,  but  where  now 
they  appear  to  be  fanned  into  coalescence  by  a  mon- 
ster's wings.  Here,  in  the  golden  haze  of  an  autumn 
afternoon,  how  big,  how  beautiful,  is  London  !  What 
piling  up  of  roofs  and  towers,  windows  agleam  in  the 
level  sunlight,  summits  tipped  with  fire  I 

*Tis  Eldorado — Eldorado  plain. 
The  Golden  City  I 


CHAPTER    VII 
THE  STREET   OF  THE   SAGGING   PURPOSE 

The  Mid-London  Crowd — **  Where's  the  Maypole  ?  " — The  Man  in 
the  Street — "Swimming  the  Hellespont" — Street  Portraiture — The 
Shops  that  Were — Doyley's — The  Polite  Grocers  and  Mad  Hatters — 
A  Phrenologist — "The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire" — 
Sotheby's — Homeric  Book  Sales — "Milk-white  Gosset" — The  Vellum 
Cure — Roger  Payne — A  Falstaffian  Memorandum — Art  among 
the  Ruins — Dr.  Monroe's  Guests — Turner's  Farewell — Rowlandson 
and  his  Cronies — C.K. — Norfolk  Street— Dr.  Brocklesby— Garrick's 
Monument — Dan  Leno 

LET  US  stroll  to  the  Strand.  Tortured  in  body, 
the  street  keeps  its  ancient  character.  It  is  neither 
of  the  east  nor  of  the  west.  It  is  a  link  that  has 
become  an  interregnum.  Its  shops  are  for  the  passer- 
by, its  hotels  for  the  pilgrims,  its  taverns  and  theatres 
for  leisure.  A  certain  sagging  of  purpose  and  uplifting 
of  curiosity  may  be  observed  in  its  unsorted  mid- 
London  crowd.  More  than  any  other  street  it  is  the 
epitome  of  London,  however  weak  in  an  impossible  role. 
The  mind,  indeed,  selects  the  Strand  as  that  bank 
and  shoal  of  time  on  which  the  Londoner  is  seen,  and 
seen  no  more.  Tennyson  no  more  ;  he  loved  the 
Strand ;  Sir  Henry  Hawkins  no  more,  looking  into 
shop-windows;  Irving  no  more,  playing  Lear  to  himself 
in  his  hansom-cab.  But,  indeed,  half  the  Strand  has 
attended  its  people  to  the  tomb.  In  our  own  time  the 
contours  and  skylines  have  changed,  tributary  streets 

159 


i6o  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

have  been  shorn  away,  old  buildings  that  were 
household  words  have  disappeared.  Exeter  Hall  is 
now  a  memory,  Coutts's  Bank  has  crossed  the  street, 
the  Strand  Theatre  is  no  more,  and  the  Tivoli  Music- 
hall  has  appeared.  The  pageant  of  the  Lowther  Arcade 
has  left  not  a  wrack  behind,  the  '^  Gaiety  "  is  not  the 
old  "  Gaiety,"  and  ''  Short's  "  is  not  the  old  ''  Short's." 
Two  great  hotels  have  obliterated  Cecil  Street  and 
Beaufort  Buildings,  those  comfortable  purlieus.  The 
Kingsway  improvement  has  displaced  a  series  of  lanes 
and  courts  on  the  north  side  of  the  street ;  but  on  the 
south  side  some  quaint  inlets  survive.  Across  Strand 
Lane  the  clothes  line  is  stretched  ;  the  Adelphi  Arches 
are  still  in  seeming  the  habitation  of  dragons ;  George 
Yard,  giving  access  to  the  Adelphi,  still  pleases  the 
artist.  But  gone  is  Thanet  Place,  that  little  oblong 
Sabbath  of  the  east  Strand,  where  but  yesterday  the 
milk  gathered  cream  at  the  lodging-house  door. 

How  many  men  of  the  books  have  been  figures  in 
the  Strand  1  Byron  came  to  see  the  hippopotamus 
that  looked  like  Lord  Liverpool  and  the  "Ursine 
Sloth "  that  had  the  voice  and  manner  of  his 
valet.  Dickens  knew  the  Strand  like  one  of  his  own 
books ;  the  *'  Pickwick  Papers  "  were  issued  close  to 
Norfolk  Street.  Hard  by  was  the  Crown  and  Anchor 
Tavern  where  Bobus  Smith  and  "  Conversation  "  Sharp 
and  Erskine  and  Curran  talked,  and  where  Herbert 
Spencer  came  to  eat  his  chop  when  he  was  helping  to 
edit  the  '*  Economist"  at  No.  340.  Mary  Ann  Evans 
was  then  working  on  the  **  Westminster  Review "  at 
No.  142,  and  the  pair  must  have  been  seen  often  on 
the  pavement,  though  not  for  long,  for  their  favourite 
promenade  was  the  river  terrace  of  Somerset  House. 
Haydon,  the  painter,  began  his  long  **  agony  of  self- 
assertion  "  in   the   Strand,  at   the  foot   of   Catherine 


THE  STREET  OF  THE  SAGGING  PURPOSE     i6i 

Street,  and  on  his  first  Sunday  morning  in  London  he 
put  up  a  fervent  prayer  for  protection  and  success  in 
St.  Mary's  Church,  rising  from  his  knees,  "  calm,  cool, 
illuminated,  as  if  crystal  circulated  through  my  veins." 
Alas! 

We  have  a  curious  glimpse  of  Coleridge  in  the 
Strand,  where  De  Quincey  found  him  in  the  ''corner" 
office  at  No.  348  Strand,  a  little  east  of  Exeter 
'Change.  One  day  he  was  walking  there  lost  in 
day-dreams,  when  he  began  to  wave  his  arms  about 
him  in  sortie  mysterious  correspondence  with  his 
thoughts.  In  the  course  of  these  gyrations  he  was 
so  unfortunate  as  to  find  his  hand  in  a  stranger's 
pocket.  This  astonished  person  at  once  charged  him 
with  a  felonious  intention,  whereupon  the  poor  youth 
sobbed  out  his  innocence,  and  added  the  perfectly 
true  explanation,  "  I  thought,  sir — I  thought  I  was 
swimming  the  Hellespont."  Few  things  give  one  a 
more  intimate  sense  of  the  old  streets  of  London 
than  a  well-etched  portrait  of  the  man  in  the  street, 
in  which  the  light  of  common  day  suddenly  prevails 
over  the  trimmed  lamp  of  biography.  Charles  Lamb, 
who  could  not  squeeze  out  a  tear  for  Byron,  and  who 
mourned  strictly  as  he  felt,  would,  it  appears,  have 
been  less  affected  by  the  death  of  Nelson  if  he  had  not 
met  him  in  a  London  street  a  few  weeks  before 
Trafalgar.  To  Hazlitt  he  wrote,  on  10  November, 
1805  :  "Wasn't  you  sorry  for  Lord  Nelson  ?  I  have 
followed  him  in  fancy  ever  since  I  saw  him  walking 
in  Pall  Mall  (I  was  prejudiced  against  him  before), 
looking  just  as  a  Hero  should  look  ;  and  I  have  been 
very  much  cut  about  it  indeed." 

The  peculiar  appeal  of  an  encounter  in  the  street, 
when  personality  or  circumstance  has  in  some  way 
rendered  it  significant,  was  understood  by  John  Bright, 


i62  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

who  in  the  greatest  of  his  speeches,  perhaps  the 
greatest  to  which  the  House  of  Commons  has  ever 
Hstened,  made  use  of  such  an  incident.  Reminding 
the  House  of  the  gaps  which  war  had  made  on  its  own 
benches,  Bright  referred  to  the  death  in  the  Crimea  of 
Colonel  Boyle,  the  member  for  Frome,  and  said, 
"  I  met  him  a  short  time  before  he  went  out,  near 
Hyde  Park  Corner.  I  asked  him  whether  he  was 
going  out.  He  answered  he  was  afraid  he  was  ;  not 
afraid  in  the  sense  of  personal  fear — he  knew  not  that ; 
but  he  said  with  a  look  and  a  tone  I  shall  never  forget, 
'  It's  no  light  matter  for  a  man  who  has  a  wife  and 
five  little  children.'  The  stormy  Euxine  is  now  in  his 
grave ;  his  wife  is  a  widow,  his  children  orphans." 
These  sentences  were  not  the  least  contributory  to  the 
effect  of  a  speech  which  pierced  and  paralysed  the 
House.  Simple  as  they  were,  their  particularization 
of  Hyde  Park  Corner,  as  the  scene  of  farewell,  was 
true  art. 

Nowhere  do  we  see  old  Hogarth  so  clearly  as  in 
a  story  of  Barry  the  painter.  Asked  whether  he 
had  ever  seen  Hogarth,  he  replied,  ^^  Yes,  once.  I  was 
walking  with  Joe  NoUekens  through  Cranbourne  Alley, 
when  he  exclaimed,  'There,  there's  Hogarth  I'  'What!' 
I  exclaimed,  '  that  little  man  in  the  sky-blue  coat  f '  Off 
I  ran,  and  though  I  lost  sight  of  him  for  only  a 
moment  or  two,  when  I  turned  the  corner  into  Castle 
Street  he  was  patting  one  of  two  quarrelling  boys  on  the 
back,  and  looking  steadfastly  at  the  expression  in  the 

coward's  face,  cried,  *  D n  him  1   if  I  would  take 

it  from  him  1  At  him  again.'"  The  delineator  of 
London  cinematographed  I 

Near  the  Strand  is  the  spot  where  Sydney  Smith, 
Tom  Moore,  and  Luttrell  fell  into  such  convulsions  of 
laughter  over  one  of  Smith's  sallies  that  they  were 


THE   STREET   OF  THE  SAGGING   PURPOSE     163 

obliged  to  reel  each  his  own  way  home  without 
further  speech. 

In  the  Strand's  new  buildings  of  the  mammoth 
order  we  are  apt  to  forget  the  numberless  small  shops 
and  upstair  businesses  which  these  have  displaced. 
There  must  be  old  Londoners  who  remember  the 
dozen  shops  that  stood  where  now  the  railings  of  the 
Charing  Cross  Station  courtyard  stretch  along  the  street. 
One  of  these  was  Yeate's  famous  ham-and-tongue  shop. 
Another  was  Warren's  blacking  warehouse.  This 
was  a  good  old-fashioned  shop,  with  double  bow- 
windows,  and  its  number,  30,  was  conspicuous  in  the 
firm's  advertisements  : — 

Hasten  to  Warren's,  at  30,  the  Strand, 
To  purchase  your  Blacking,  the  best  in  the  land  1 
And  for  polish  and  surface,  and  brightness  of  hue, 
No  mirror  shall  then  be  compared  to  your  shoe. 

Warren  was  a  pioneer  of  poetical  advertising,  but  the 
story  that  Lord  Byron  wrote  rhymes  for  him  at  half  a 
crown  a  piece  is  sufficiently  dealt  with  by  the  author 
of  "  Real  Life  in  London."  As  for  Dickens's  youthful 
connexion  with  the  Warrens,  it  is  vaguely  perpetuated 
by  the  red-coated  Charing  Cross  Station  shoeblacks 
who  now  polish  the  boots  of  Londoners  near  the  site 
of  his  sorrows  at  Hungerford  Stairs. 

Next  to  Warren's,  at  the  west  corner  of  Villiers 
Street,  was  Roakes  and  Varty's  book-shop.  A  little 
further  east  Bewlay's  tobacco-shop  stood  as  it  does  to- 
day. At  No.  53,  now  dedicated  to  the  "  Living  Pictures," 
a  Mr.  Solomon  sat  at  the  receipt  of  custom,  and  adver- 
tised on  the  front  of  the  building  his  willingness  to 
cash  "  Irish  and  Scotch  notes." 

Shops  of  a  type  which  are  noticeably  scarce  to-day 
in  the  Strand  were  those  of  Minier,  Adams  &  Nash, 


i64  A    LONDONER'S   LONDON 

seedsmen,  next  to  Coutts's  old  bank,  and  Daft  &  Son, 
at  No.  69,  hot-house  builders.  Good  old  shops  were 
Leigh's  map-shop,  one  door  east  of  Bedford  Street, 
and  Caldwell's  biscuit  warehouse  four  doors  west  of 
it.     This  building  is  now  the  Windsor  Tavern. 

Exeter  Hall,  sixty  years  ago,  was  flanked  by  Hunt, 
the  billiard-table-maker,  and  then  came  two  medical 
establishments — Scott's  Medical  Repository  (now 
a  caf6)  and  the  Medical  Dissenter  Office,  now  a 
sweet-shop.  These  buildings  are  unaltered.  The  latter 
was  the  Strand  depot  for  the  sale  of  Morrison's  pills. 
"  Knight's  Shell  Fish  Warehouse  "  stood  where  Gow's 
now  invites  to  oysters.  At  the  foot  of  Catherine  Street 
was  the  "  Court  Gazette  "  office. 

A  quaint  shop  on  the  south  side  of  the  Strand, 
No.  106,  immediately  opposite  the  aforesaid  pill  ware- 
house, was  Dyte's,  *'  Quill  Merchants  and  Pen  Manu- 
facturers to  Her  Majesty."  Burgess's  antique  and 
sternutative  fish-sauce  shop,  close  by,  vanished  only 
a  few  years  ago.  Messrs.  Maggs,  the  library  book- 
sellers, now  occupy  a  building  that  was  held  by  Mr. 
Miers,  who  there  flourished  as  a  miniature-frame- 
maker  in  days  when  the  art  of  miniature  was  yet 
unthreatened  by  photography  ;  and  what  forbids  us  to 
suppose  that  he  framed  the  identical  picture  of  "a 
lady  reading  a  manuscript  in  an  unfathomable  forest," 
for  Miss  La  Creevy,  whose  studio  was  "about  half- 
way down  "  the  Strand  ? 

A  great  Strand  shop  in  its  day  was  Doyley's,  whence 
the  "  doyley  "  of  the  dinner-table  came.  His  premises 
were  at  No.  346,  east  of  Exeter  'Change,  and  were  said 
to  have  been  built  by  Inigo  Jones.  The  business  itself 
was  old  enough  to  have  been  mentioned  by  Addison 
and  Congreve.  The  Doyley  of  the  Johnson  period 
cut  a  pleasant  social  figure  in  the  Strand,  and  the  steps 


^&i^. 


A   VANISHED   ARCHWAY    (LINCOLN'S    INN    FIELDS) 

SHAKESPEARE    NEVER  SAW  THIS    ARCH,  BUT    BACON    MAY    HAVE   SEEN    IT    PLANNED      (P,   147) 


THE   STREET  OF  THE  SAGGING   PURPOSE     165 

of  his  shop,  with  an  awning  over  them,  were  used  for 
lounging  and  meeting.  Another  shopkeeper  of  social 
habits  was  William  Clarke,  the  proprietor  of  Exeter 
'Change,  who  was  both  learned  and  honest  in  all  that 
concerned  canes  and  walking-sticks. 

Thomson,  the  music-seller,  was  another  Exeter 
'Change  shopman  of  whom  accounts  have  survived. 
His  shop  was  crowded  with  musical  amateurs  and  not 
a  few  composers  of  note.  His  shelves  were  full  of  old 
plays  and  pamphlets,  and  his  talk  of  stories  concerning 
Purcell  and  Croft  and  Boyce ;  he  helped  Sir  John 
Hawkins  greatly  with  his  History  of  Music,  and 
Richard  Wilson,  the  painter,  who  was  a  critic  of  men, 
was  his  crony. 

There  were  also  the  Polite  Grocers  and  the  Mad 
Hatters.  On  his  way  to  Exeter  'Change  Byron  must 
have  passed  the  shop  of  the  famous  Polite  Grocers, 
the  brothers  Aaron  and  John  Trim.  "  Brother  John 
and  I,"  as  they  were  called,  weighed  out  their  hyson 
and  bohea  for  many  years  at  449  Strand.  Every  one 
knew  the  "  Polite  Grocers."  The  brothers  were 
singular  persons  to  look  at,  and  they  managed  their 
whole  business  themselves.  On  every  general  subject 
they  talked  with  the  utmost  affability,  but  on  their  own 
concerns  they  maintained  a  close  reserve.  They  were 
never  seen  but  in  their  shop  and  in  their  pew  at  St. 
Martin's  Church. 

At  No.  71  the  Strand  flourished  Lloyd  the  hatter, 
the  historian  and  laureate  of  hats.  He  sold  forty  shapes, 
and  knew  how  to  glorify  each.  He  assisted  the  public 
to  remember  his  address  by  publishing  these  lines  : — 

Lloyd,  the  great  Hatter,  renowned  far  and  near, 
(Fame  trumpets  his  name  through  the  land) 

Crowns  with  rich  Castors,  Prince,  Peasant,  and  Peer, 
At  SEVENTY-ONE  in  the  Strand. 


i66  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

With  short  naps  and  long  naps,  for  heads  large  and  small, 

In  thousands  of  shapes  he  can  cater, 
At  his  Depot  of  Taste,  Fashion,  Fancy,  and  all, 

Just  facing  th'  Adelphi  Theatre. 

Time  has  given  to  Mr.  Lloyd's  poetic  advertisements 
a  certain  interest.  From  them  we  learn  that  the 
popular  hat  of  th-e  eighteen-thirties  was  the  "  Tilbury/* 
though  Lloyd  considered  it  had  too  much  character  to 
suit  many  wearers.  Here  spake  the  artist,  but  the 
hatter  made  haste  to  add,  "  the  shape  of  the  face  is 
immaterial,  provided  the  complexion  is  not  too  dingy." 
He  adds  that,  "  neither  overgrown  nor  little  fat  gentle- 
men "  should  wear  this  shape,  whose  virtues  are 
compressed  into  these  lines: — 

For  ease,  form,  and  set, 

The  like  never  yet 
Was  seen — at  least,  so  run  opinions  ; 

Then  ye  Bloods  and  ye  Whips, 

In  your  "  Tilbury  "  trips. 
Look  well  to  your  upper  dominions. 

The  "  Tilbury  "  shape  narrowed  as  it  ascended,  its  brim 
curled  rapidly  at  the  sides,  but  was  well  splayed  in 
front.  Lloyd  directed  his  customers  to  wear  it  rather 
forward,  and  a  little  to  one  side.  Captain  Gronow, 
duellist  and  diarist,  wore  the  '' Tilbury." 

A  more  accommodating  hat  was  the  "  Anglesea,"  with 
its  perfectly  straight  chimney-pot  and  delicate  brim. 

To  every  head,  to  every  face, 

To  every  form  and  feature, 
This  Hat  adds  lustre,  ease  and  grace — 

Thus  art  combines  with  nature. 

The  "  Anglesea  "  must  have  been  a  good  hat  for  a  states- 
man, and  if  I  read  certain  portraits  rightly  it  was  worn 


THE   STREET  OF  THE   SAGGING   PURPOSE     167 

by  the  Duke  of  Wellington  after  he  had  assumed  that 
character.  But  the  ^'Wellington/'  named  after  him, 
was  a  more  formidable  headpiece,  and  dated  no  doubt 
from  his  military  days  : — 

Bold,  martial,  in  style — 'twas  designed  for  the  face 
Of  England's  great  Captain  and  Statesman,  his  Grace, 
Of  whose  talents  and  virtues,  'tis  a  type  emblematic, 
Which  in  war  is  decision,  in  council  emphatic. 

From  a  rather  small,  well-curled  brim,  in  which  there 
is  little  benevolence,  this  hat  widened  upwards.  It 
overhung  the  face  like  a  cliff  that  recedes  from  the 
top,  and  suggested  a  crushing  progress  against  obstacles. 

The  '' Bon-Ton  "hat  was  like  the  "Anglesea,"  buthad 
more  devil  in  its  brim.  The  ''Bit  of  Blood"  was  like  a 
Wellington — built  on  a  low  elevation.  It  was  all  angle 
and  curl,  and  squat  at  that.  It  was  "  admirably  calcu- 
lated for  those  who  are  about  to  ask  favours,  such 
being  more  readily  granted  when  they  seem  less 
wanted,  and  no  one  could  suppose  that  the  saucy 
animation,  which  would  be  so  strongly  visible  under 
this  hat,  could  make  the  application  from  necessity." 
Lloyd  further  recommended  the  ''  Bit  of  Blood  "  to 
elderly  gentlemen  about  to  marry  young  widows,  who 
"  nine  times  in  ten  decide  on  the  choice  of  a  man  from 
the  cock  of  his  hat." 

Mr.  Lloyd's  talents  seem  to  have  made  his  rivals 
rather  sore.  Not  much  love  was  lost  between  him  and 
Mr.  Perring  of  No.  58  Strand.  Mr.  Perring  claimed 
to  have  "invented"  beaver  hats,  and  particularly  to 
have  been  the  first  person  to  introduce  the  light  beaver 
hat  weighing  four  ounces.  He  advertised  bitterly  that 
since  that  great  day  his  *'  copyists  "  had  "  sprung  up 
like  mushrooms."  Nay,  these  "unprincipled  pre- 
tenders "  had  even  copied  his  doorway. 


i68  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

At  No.  355  Strand,  next  to  the  Lyceum  Theatre, 
that  interesting  person  Deville  the  phrenologist 
examined  the  heads  of  his  generation.  Among  his 
satisfied  cHents  was  Tom  Moore,  who  paid  him  a  visit 
on  II  May,  1826,  taking  with  him  Sir  Francis  Burdett. " 
He  found  no  poetry  in  Moore's  head,  but  a  great  love 
of  facts  and  clearness  of  argument.  Moore  was  not 
displeased  ;  no  one  ever  is  displeased  with  a  phrenolo- 
gist, who  when  he  does  not  confirm  self-love  usually 
extends  its  scope.  Professor  Fowler  once  told  me 
that  I  possess  great  organizing  ability,  and  would  be 
able  to  control  a  vast  railway  system.  I  have  not  yet 
been  able  to  tidy  my  desk,  but  I  always  think  kindly 
of  Professor  Fowler. 

Moore  took  other  of  his  friends  to  Deville,  and 
one  party  consisted  of  Lords  Lansdowne  and  Cawdor, 
and  Sydney  Smith.  On  this  occasion  the  phrenologist 
did  not  shine  ;  he  told  Lord  Lansdowne,  whom  he  did 
not  know,  that  he  gave  his  opinion  without  deliber- 
ation, and  Sydney  Smith  that  he  was  fond  of  making 
natural  history  collections.  Smith  carried  off  the 
affair  with  "inextinguishable  and  contagious  laughter," 
in  which  Moore  joined,  even  to  tears. 

It  should  be  piously  remembered  that  '*Tom  Jones,** 
and  the  **  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire," 
and  the  "  Pickwick  Papers "  were  all  first  published 
in  the  Strand.  Fielding's  publisher,  Andrew  Millar, 
had  succeeded  to  the  premises  of  Jacob  Tonson  at 
No.  141,  a  house  now  obliterated  by  Somerset  House. 
This  shop  was  a  hub  of  literature  during  several  genera- 
tions, and  its  door  was  entered  by  Swift,  Pope, 
Johnson  and  Hume,  and  Thomson.  Cadell's  partner, 
Strahan,  saw  the  possibilities  of  the  "  Decline  and 
Fall."  Gibbon  himself  relates  :  *'  I  agreed  upon  easy 
terms  with    Mr.  Thomas  Cadell,  a  respectable   book- 


THE   STREET  OF  THE  SAGGING   PURPOSE     169 

seller,  and  Mr.  William  Strahan,  an  eminent  printer, 
and  they  undertook  the  care  and  risk  of  the  publi- 
cation which  derived  more  credit  from  the  name  of 
the  shop  than  from  that  of  the  author.  So  moderate 
were  our  hopes  that  the  original  impression  had  been 
stinted  to  five  hundred,  till  the  number  was  doubled 
by  the  prophetic  taste  of  Mr.  Strahan."  The  first 
volume  was  published  on  30  April,  1777,  and  the  first 
edition  of  a  thousand  copies  had  to  be  immediately 
supplemented  by  second  and  third  editions,  making 
3500  copies  in  all.  The  remaining  three  volumes 
appeared  at  intervals  ;  the  fourth  not  till  1788,  when 
its  publication  was  arranged  to  coincide  with  Gibbon's 
fifty-first  birthday  and  a  ^'  cheerful  literary  dinner  at 
Mr.  Cadell's  house." 

The  Strand  has  seen  not  only  the  publication  of 
books  which  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die,  but 
also  the  dispersal  of  the  collections  of  generations  of 
book-lovers.  The  auction -rooms  that  are  now  always 
spoken  of  as  ^'Sotheby's,"  and  are  in  Wellington 
Street,  were  once  in  the  Strand  itself,  at  No.  145. 
The  business  originated  in  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century  with  Samuel  Baker,  of  York 
Street,  Covent  Garden,  and  was  soon  being  carried 
on  under  the  style  of  Baker,  Leigh  &  Sotheby. 
Mr.  Baker  was  called,  by  courtesy,  the  father  of  his 
tribe,  and  Dibdin  records  that  at  sixty  years  of  age 
he  had  every  tooth  in  his  head  as  sound  as  a  roach. 
He  and  his  partners  and  successors,  George  Leigh 
and  Samuel  Sotheby,  wielded  the  hammer  in  the 
great  days  of  bibliomania,  when  collectors  and  con- 
noisseurs, some  titled,  all  wealthy,  stood  in  person 
round  the  candle-lit  rostrum  with  snuff-boxes  and 
catalogues. 

To  savour  all  that  bibliognostic,  bibliomaniac,  biblio- 


170  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

polical,  and  bibliopegistic  world  you  must  turn  to  the 
pages  of  Dibdin,  where  these  old  gentlemen  in  beaver 
hats  and  spectacles  become  ^*  book  knights"  or  "book 
gladiators"  in  a  Homeric  struggle  for  the  possession 
of  Caxtons  and  De  Wordes,  vellums  and  variorums, 
missals  and  black-letter  rarities,  and  the  tooled  master- 
pieces of  Lewis  and  Roger  Payne.  When  Atticus 
"drops  his  lance  and  retires  stunned  at  the  repeated 
blows  inflicted  on  his  helmet,"  we  understand  that 
Richard  Heber  has  been  outbidden.  But  again 
trumpets  sound,  falchions  glitter,  and  Atticus  secures 
Lot  3228  after  "enpurpling  the  plain  with  his  blood." 
The  battle  rages  at  last  by  candle-light.  "O  day  of 
unexampled  courage,  slaughter,  devastation,  and 
phrensy ! "  Even  when  the  combatants  retire  it  is 
only  to  wait  the  dawn  and  close  rivets  up  for  the 
ensanguined  hour  in  which  the  Valdarfer  Boccaccio 
of  147 1,  the  most  coveted  volume  in  existence,  will 
change  hands.  When  at  last  Mr.  Evans's  hammer 
falls  at  ;£226o,  its  tap  is  heard  in  the  libraries  of 
Rome  and  Venice,  and  Boccaccio  starts  from  his 
slumber  of  five  hundred  years  I 

On  the  whole  one  likes  Dibdin  best  in  his  moments 
of  exhaustion,  when  he  is  content,  for  example,  to 
sketch  the  portrait  of  "  Milk-white  Gosset,"  so  named 
from  his  passion  for  vellum.  The  Reverend  Isaac 
Gosset  is  said  to  have  been  cured  of  an  illness  by 
the  mere  sight  of  a  vellum  Polyglot  Bible  which  was 
brought  to  his  bedside.  He  is  called  by  Dibdin  the 
Nestor  of  the  book-auctions,  and  the  Homeric  counter- 
part was  aptly  chosen  for  the  little  hunchbacked 
scholar  who,  when  he  preached  at  Conduit  Street 
Chapel,  was  obliged  to  make  himself  visible  in  the 
pulpit  by  standing  on  two  hassocks.  He  abounded 
in    literary    information     and     humour.      He     died 


THE  STREET  OF  THE   SAGGING   PURPOSE     171 

suddenly  in  his  house  in  Newman  Street,  and  was 
mourned  by  Stephen  Weston  in  Hnes  which  adum- 
brate the  bibhomaniacal  tumult  in  which  he  lived 
and  moved. 

When  Gosset  fell, 

Leigh  rang  his  knell, 
And  Sotheby  'gan  to  vapour  ; 

For  I've  been  told, 

That  Folios  sold, 
Indignant  for  waste-paper. 

Dibdin  tells,  too,  how  the  spoils  of  battle  were 
carried  in  many  cases  to  Roger  Payne's  workshop 
in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  where  they  entered  an  atmo- 
sphere of  squalor  and  strong  ale  to  emerge  in  apparel 
of  exquisite  design  and  fragrance.  Roger  Payne  and 
his  brother  Thomas  drank  and  quarrelled  among 
the  treasures  of  literature.  Thomas  did  the  *^ forward- 
ing," and  Roger  wrought  on  the  leather.  They  used 
the  finest  materials  with  the  finest  art,  and  were  never 
the  richer.  Roger  was  once  convicted  of  the  Fal- 
staffian  memorandum,  '^  For  Bacon,  one  halfpenny, 
for  Liquor,  one  shilling."  He  went  in  tatters,  and 
his  appearance,  says  Dibdin,  ^^  bespoke  either  squalid 
wretchedness  or  a  foolish  and  fierce  indifference  to  the 
received  opinions  of  mankind.  His  hair  was  unkempt, 
his  visage  elongated,  his  attire  wretched,  and  the 
interior  of  his  workshop — where,  like  the  Turk,  he 
would  'bear  no  brother  near  his  throne' — harmonized." 
At  the  age  of  fifty-eight  Roger  Payne  died  in  Duke's 
Court,  St.  Martin's  Lane,  and  was  buried  in  the 
churchyard  of  St.  Martin's-in-the-Fields.  Alcohol 
had  vanquished  art,  but  not  until  ''  Bound  by  Roger 
Payne"  had  become  a  sumptuous  whisper  in  every 
library  and  auction-room. 

One   may   easily   forget   that  during  seventy  years 


172  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

the  Royal  Academy  brought  great  painters  and  art- 
lovers  into  the  Strand.  Its  first  official  quarters 
were  in  old  Somerset  House,  and  in  1780  new 
Somerset  House  became  the  scene  of  its  exhibitions. 
Thither  came  Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  Turner,  and 
Constable. 

In  Pyne's  "Wine  and  Walnuts"  it  is  told  that 
Reynolds  used  to  speak  of  the  fine  morning  effect 
of  the  Strand  as  it  burst  upon  him  when  he  came 
through  Exeter  'Change  gate,  on  his  way  to  the 
Royal  Academy.  "The  sun,  then  due  east,  held  the 
new  church  ^  in  a  mass  of  rich  grey,  and  the  morning 
beam  shed  its  rays  with  Rubens-like  splendour  on 
each  side,  glancing  obliquely  on  the  projections  of 
old  Somerset  House,  and  upon  the  plastered  gables 
of  the  old-fashioned  houses  that  stood  out  of  the 
parallel  of  the  street."  These  gables  have  long  ceased 
to  take  the  sunrise,  but  on  each  side  of  Somerset 
House  stand  six  houses  which  Reynolds  must  have 
seen,  and  whose  tiled  roofs  must  have  had  their  part 
in  that  morning  symphony. 

Within  the  old  palace  Reynolds's  eye  met  another 
feast  of  colour,  albeit  broken  and  faded — a  vast 
disarray  of  pomp  in  the  midst  of  which  Art  was 
lifting  her  eyes  in  new  ways  of  worship.  The  story 
of  the  palace  is  in  many  books.  Built  by  the  Pro- 
tector Somerset,  it  had  been  visited  by  Elizabeth. 
It  was  given  by  James  I  to  Anne  of  Denmark,  and 
by  Charles  II  to  Queen  Catherine.  In  one  of  its 
chambers  Inigo  Jones  had  died,  in  another  Crom- 
well's body  had  lain  in  state.  The  early  Quakers 
would  have  banished  its  idols  and  fripperies  and  sat 
silent  in  its  halls,  but  Fox  checked  these  "forward 
spirits"  because  he  foresaw  "the  King's  coming  in 
«  St.  Mary-le-Strand. 


GEORGE   YARD,    STRAND 

GEOKGE   YARD,    GIVING   ACCESS   TO   THE   ADELl'HI,    STILL   PLEASES   THE   ARTIST      (p.  l6o) 


THE   STREET   OF  THE   SAGGING   PURPOSE     173 

again."  The  palace  became  a  nesting-place  of  Court 
favourites,  and  then  a  barrack. 

Dapper  artists  and  critics  must  have  curiously 
surveyed  the  ruins  about  them.  Neglected  gardens, 
mutilated  statues,  and  fountains  long  dried  up  met 
the  eye.  Within  the  stately  old  rooms  a  hundred 
relics  of  royalty  and  grandeur  were  seen.  "  In  one 
part,"  says  a  writer  of  the  period,  '*were  the  vestiges 
of  a  throne  and  canopy  of  State ;  in  another  curtains 
for  the  audience-chamber,  which  had  once  been 
crimson  velvet,  fringed  with  gold.  What  remained 
of  the  fabric  had,  except  in  the  deepest  folds,  faded 
to  olive  colour ;  all  the  fringe  and  lace  but  a  few 
threads  and  spangles  off;  the  ornaments  of  the  chairs 
of  State  demolished  ;  the  stools,  couches,  screens,  and 
fire-dogs  broken  and  scattered  about. 

*'  The  audience-chamber  had  been  hung  in  silk, 
which  was  in  tatters,  as  were  the  curtains,  gilt  leather 
covers,  and  painted  screens.  Some  of  the  sconces, 
though  reversed,  were  still  against  the  hangings ;  and 
one  of  the  brass-gilt  chandeliers  still  depended  from 
the  ceiling.  .  .  .  The  general  state  of  this  building — 
its  mouldering  walls  and  decaying  furniture,  broken 
casements,  falling  roof,  and  the  long  range  of  its 
unhabited  and  unhabitable  apartments — presented  to 
the  mind  in  strong,  though  gloomy,  colours  a  correct 
picture  of  those  dilapidated  castles,  the  haunts  of 
spectres  and  residence  of  magicians  and  murderers, 
which  have  since  the  period  to  which  I  allude  made 
such  a  figure  in  romance." 

In  such  surroundings  did  the  eighteenth-century 
masters — Classicists  and  Futurists — organize  their 
work.  But  the  palace  soon  dissolved,  and  it  was  in 
the  Somerset  House  of  to-day  that  the  first  and 
greatest  of  them  bade  farewell  to  Hfe  and  art.     The 


174  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

scene  and  circumstances  of  Reynolds's  last  discourse 
are  familiar,  but  good  to  recall.  He  said,  ^'  My  age 
and  my  infirmities  make  it  probable  that  this  will  be 
the  last  time  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  addressing  you 
from  this  place.  ...  I  reflect,  not  without  vanity,  that 
these  discourses  bear  testimony  of  my  admiration  of 
that  truly  divine  man  ;  and  I  should  desire  that  the 
last  words  which  I  should  pronounce  in  this  Academy 
and  in  this  place  should  be  the  name  of  Michel- 
angelo." There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Burke,  grasping 
the  President's  hand,  repeated  Milton's  lines  : — 

The  Angel  ended  ;  and  in  Adam's  ear 

So  charming  left  his  voice,  that  he  awhile 

Thought  him  still  speaking,  still  stood  fixed  to  hear. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  a  street  that  has  always  linked 
the  London  of  work  to  the  London  of  play  should 
have  become  deeply  concerned  with  art  and  literature. 
The  nursery  of  old  English  water-colour  painting  was 
Dr.  Monro's  house  at  No.  8  Adelphi  Terrace,  whither 
Turner  came  (crossing  the  Strand  from  Maiden 
Lane)  to  sketch  with  Girtin  for  half  a  crown  and 
his  supper.  Enough  honour  has  not  been  paid  to 
Monro.  He  tended  sick  minds  in  Bedlam,  and  in 
his  leisure  encouraged  the  sweet  sanities  of  landscape 
art  in  the  Adelphi.  He  was  not  a  mere  patron  of 
artists,  he  was  their  friend  and  good  Samaritan.  He 
tended  John  Cozens  in  his  last  darkened  years  ;  he 
helped  De  Wint,  Varley,  and  Cristall  in  various  crises ; 
and  he  buried  Hearne  and  Edridge  in  Bushey  church- 
yard, where  he  lies  beside  them.  He  was  himself  an 
amateur  artist,  with  a  passion  for  sketching  in  Gains- 
borough's broad  style,  and  he  was  so  in  love  with  his 
collected  drawings  and  prints  that  he  had  a  netting 
placed  in  the  roof  of  his  carriage  to  hold  a  portfolio. 


THE   STREET   OF   THE   SAGGING    PURPOSE     175 

The  sketching-room  in  Adelphi  Terrace  was  provided 
with  desks  and  candles,  and  in  it  a  dozen  young 
painters  practised  in  the  winter  evenings,  Monro 
undertaking  to  buy  their  drawings  for  half  a  crown 
apiece  and  to  add  an  oyster  supper. 

We  think  of  London  as  the  emporium  of  Art, 
forgetting  that  her  streets  and  suburbs  have  been  its 
nursery.  Girtin  dated  much  of  his  accomplishment 
from  a  study  he  made  of  the  steps  of  the  old  Savoy 
Palace.  The  river  and  Clapham  Common  gave  Turner 
some  of  his  earliest  subjects.  Gainsborough  and  his 
friend  Collins  made  studies  of  the  docks  and  nettles 
along  the  river  at  Millbank.  Varley  and  Neale  would 
spend  a  whole  Sunday  in  the  fields  about  Hoxton  and 
Tottenham.  William  Hunt  and  John  Linnell  resorted 
to  the  Kensington  Gravel-pits,  then  open  country,  and 
sat  down  to  sketch  any  mossy  walk  or  cottage  and 
paling  that  offered  them  practice.  George  Barrett 
advised  students  to  watch  the  sunsets  over  Paddington 
Canal  from  the  bridge  at  Maida  Hill.  Paul  Sandby, 
in  his  eightieth  year,  might  be  seen  seated  at  his 
window  in  the  Uxbridge  Road  sketching  some  effect 
of  light  and  shadow  in  Hyde  Park.  Lovely  and 
pleasant  in  their  lives,  in  death  these  men  are  not 
divided,  for  one  seldom  thinks  of  them  singly,  and  year 
after  year,  when  the  March  sun  invests  the  church  of 
St.  Mary-le-Strand  with  a  flower-like  whiteness,  and 
the  crocuses  illumine  the  soil  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  we  are 
summoned  to  an  ingathering  of  that  exquisite  and 
unassailable  art  which  so  largely  began  and  ended 
along  the  Thames  shore. 

You  may  still  see  the  Chelsea  window  to  which 
Turner's  chair  was  drawn  in  his  hour  of  valediction. 
The  light  of  the  short  day  was  dying  along  the  river  of 
his  youth.     There  Girtin,  of  whom  he  always  spoke  as 


176  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

''Poor  Tom,"  had  painted  his  "White  House." 
There,  or  near  this  spot,  he  had  himself  painted  his 
first  exhibited  picture,  the  ''  Moonlight  at  Millbank." 
As  a  man  he  had  lived  too  long,  and  as  a  painter  he 
had  long  survived  the  Adelphi  brotherhood.  He  had 
lived  to  send  his  pictures  to  the  Great  Exhibition, 
whose  pavilions  heliographed  to  the  world  the  coming 
of  a  new  age,  our  own.  Who  can  doubt  that  he  saw 
its  vapour  in  the  river  dusk,  and  caught  the  murmur 
of  our  multitudinous  ado  1  For  our  England  is  not 
Turner's ;  she  stands  to  be  new  or  to  be  lost ;  and 
Old  England — the  feudal  garden  of  our  fathers,  and 
the  unscrambled  honeycomb  of  poet  and  painter — 
passed  in  that  December  evening,  on  that  Chelsea 
beach,  when  the  sunset  drew  the  night  over  the 
waters,  and  eternal  night  over  the  soul  of  Turner.  It 
was  fitting  that  he,  the  greatest,  should  watch  the 
fading  day,  his  the  hand  to  fire  the  evening  gun. 

Not  quite  of  these  was  Thomas  Rowlandson,  who 
was  to  be  seen  walking  any  day  between  Adam  Street 
and  Rudolf  Ackermann's  print-shop  at  No.  96  Strand, 
later  at  No.  loi.  Here,  close  to  the  Beaufort  Buildings 
where  Charles  Lillie  had  sold  his  "true  perfumed 
lightning,"  and  his  rejected  letters  to  the  "  Tatler," 
Ackermann  published  "  Dr.  Syntax,"  and  Rowlandson 
found  a  market  for  his  boisterous  caricatures.  To 
Beaufort  Buildings — now  handsomely  sepulchred  by 
the  Savoy  Hotel — came  artists,  authors,  and  connois- 
seurs at  the  bidding  of  the  clever,  burly,  upright, 
broken  -  English  -  speaking  German.  Mr.  Mitchell, 
the  banker,  lived  in  the  same  buildings,  and  helped  to 
give  the  place  a  festive  character.  Rowlandson  was 
constantly  at  his  table  when  he  was  not  travelling 
Europe  to  make  sketches  on  commission  for  the 
banker's  portfolios.     **A   most   facetious,   fat  gentle- 


THE   STREET   OF  THE   SAGGING  PURPOSE     177 

man,"    is    Henry   Angelo's    description    of    Mitchell. 
**  In  him  centred,  or  rather  round  him  the  Fates  piled 
up,  the  wealth  of  a  whole  family.     He  was  ever  the 
great  gathering  nucleus  to  a  large  fortune.     He  was 
good-humoured,  and  enjoyed  life.     Many  a  cheerful 
day  have  I,  in  company  with  Bannister  and  Rowland- 
son,  passed  at  Master  Mitchell's  .  .  .  listening  to  the 
stories   of   my   old   friend    Peter    Pindar,   whose   wit 
seemed  not  to  kindle  until  after  midnight,  at  the  period 
of  about  his  fifth  or  sixth  glass  of  brandy  and  water. 
Rowlandson   too,  having   nearly  finished   his  twelfth 
glass  of  punch,  and  replenished  his  pipe  with  choice 
Oronooko,  would  chime   in."      Pyne,  to    quote   him 
again,   introduces  Caleb  Whitefoord,  the   witty   wine 
merchant,  whose  "  Cross  Readings  "  so  easily  amused 
Dr.  Johnson  and   his  friends.     Caleb  meets  Mitchell 
near  the  Adelphi  and  exclaims,  "  Well,  worthy  Sir,  what 
more  choice  bits — more  graphic  whimsies,  to  add  to 
the  collection   at   Enfield,  hey  ?     Well,  how  fares  it 
with  our  friend  Roily  ?  "      "  Why  yes.   Mister   Caleb 
Whitefoord,  I  go  collecting  on,  though  I  began  to  think 
I  have  enough  already,  for  I  have  some  hundreds  of 
his  spirited  works  ;    but  somehow  there  is  a  sort  of 
fascination   in   these   matters,  and — heigh — ha — ho — 
hoo  "  (gaping),  ^^  I  never  go  up — up —    Bless  the  man  ! 
why  will  he  live  so  high  ?     It  kills  me  to  climb  his 
stairs,"  holding  his  ponderous  sides.     "  I  never  go  up, 
Mister   Caleb,    but    I    find   something   new,   and   am 
tempted  to  pull  my  purse-strings.     His  invention,  his 
humour,  his  oddity,  is  exhaustless." 

In  this  atmosphere  was  carried  out  the  scheme  of 
**The  Microcosm  of  London,"  consisting  of  a  series 
of  views  of  London  streets,  buildings,  and  interiors, 
with  accompanying  letterpress.  Pugin  did  the  archi- 
tecture, and  Rowlandson  put  in  the  figures.    Rowland- 


178  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

son's  industry  was  prodigious,  yet  he  was  no  hermit  ; 
he  often  diced  a  whole  night  away,  and  once  he  sat  at 
the  gaming-table  for  thirty-six  hours.  He  was  uncon- 
trollable in  this  matter,  yet  remained  the  soul  of 
honour.  And  if  his  losses  were  great  at  night,  so  was 
his  toil  next  morning.  His  rapidity  of  draughtsman- 
ship was  amazing.  It  was  not  boastfully  that  he 
would  say  :  ^*  I  have  played  the  fool,  but" — holding  up 
his  pencil — ^'  here  is  my  resource."  Nor  did  his 
drawing  exhaust  his  production,  for  he  declared  that 
he  had  etched  as  much  copper  as  would  sheathe  a 
man-of-war. 

Another  great  artist  whose  name  is  written  in  the 
Strand  is  Charles  Keene.  His  first  drawing  for 
"  Punch  "  was  done  in  his  ramshackle  studio  at  the 
top  of  a  house  in  the  demolished  row  that  ran  a  little 
while  ago  between  the  churches,  screening  Holywell 
Street.  From  its  windows  he  and  his  sister  watched 
the  funeral  procession  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 
His  biographer,  Mr.  Layard,  gives  a  pleasantly  minute 
description  of  this  "sky-parlour,"  with  its  artistic 
odds  and  ends,  costumes,  armour,  and  a  battered  old 
lay  figure.  In  this  chaos  Keene  worked  in  a  pea- 
jacket,  smoking  a  little  Jacobean  clay  pipe.  He  was 
a  bundle  of  whims  and  contempts,  and  had  small 
respect  for  the  idle  opinions  of  the  world.  "Them's 
my  sentiments  pretty  accurately,"  he  said  one  day, 
after  quoting  these  lines  of  his  friend,  Percival  Leigh, 
from  a  very  early  number  of  "  Punch  "  : — 


Mrs.  Grundi, 

Gloria  Mundi, 
Passes  like  a  dream  away. 

You  may  chatter, 

That's  no  matter 
Ma'am,  1  care  nut  what  you  say. 


THE   STREET  OF  THE   SAGGING  PURPOSE     179 

Keene  is  one  of  the  little  immortals,  with  his  gallery 
of  self-made  old  gentlemen,  barristers,  volunteers, 
artists,  waiters,  barbers,  and  'Arry  and  'Arriet. 
^^  Learned  Professor  [to  bookseller)'.  *  Have  you  the 
''Bacchae"  of  Euripides?'  'Arry:  ^'Ere,  'ave  a  fill 
out  o'  my  pouch,  Gov'ner  1 '  "  Charles  Lamb  would 
have  relished  the  old  scholar's  glassy,  uncomprehending 
stare,  and  the  bookseller's  poise  of  ignorance,  which 
puts  him  as  much  beneath  the  situation  as  'Arry's 
good-heartedness  makes  him  its  master.  Keene  loved 
to  arrest  a  stare  or  a  gasp,  as  in  his  ^^  Punch  "  drawing 
"Cheek."  A  volunteer  regiment  is  about  to  march 
out  with  twenty  rounds  of  blank  cartridge.  ^^Sub- 
lieutenant {of  twenty-four  hours'  service)  :  ^  Where- 
abouts is  this  Pyrotechnic  Display  of  yours  coming 
off,  Colonel  ? '"  It  is  an  awful  moment.  The  few 
officers  standing  about  are  paralysed,  the  colonel's 
horse,  led  by  an  orderly,  alone  stirs  a  limb ;  in  the 
distance  the  regiment  waits.  The  colonel  glares  on 
the  youngster,  from  whose  face  the  smile  is  just 
fading.  Keene's  backgrounds,  his  landscapes  and 
distances,  his  bits  of  country  lane,  his  gates  and  park 
walls,  and  his  beaches  and  boats  are  inimitable. 
The  way  in  which  standing  wheat  is  rendered  in 
the  drawing  of  26  August,  1871,  called  "Silly 
Suffolk  (?)  Pastorals — Reciprocity,"  is  miraculous. 
And  who  ever  drew  a  turnip-field,  with  a  pencil,  like 
Keene  ? 

The  island  block  that  separated  the  two  Strand 
churches  and  hid  them  from  each  other  became  airy 
nothing  ten  years  ago.  The  river-ward  streets  here 
had  already  been  rebuilt  in  a  neo-Gothic  style  which 
suggests  their  former  appearance  no  more  than  a  void. 
Still,  their  names  remain,  their  sites  are  preserved,  and 
in   Norfolk   Street   a   large   and   coherent  scheme    of 


i8o  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

rebuilding  has  somehow  spared  one  of  the  houses 
which  represent  the  street  in  which  Peter  the  Great 
had  his  first  London  dwelHng. 

I  have  been  told  that  when  the  old  houses  in 
Norfolk  Street  were  pulled  down,  some  twenty 
years  ago,  several  were  found  to  have  been  built  on 
piles.  In  the  old  days  Norfolk  Street  was  virtually  a 
blind  alley  ;  at  its  lower  end  there  was  a  semicircular 
platform  or  terrace  with  railings,  from  which  wan- 
derers from  the  Strand  could  look  down  on  the  boats. 
Many  Londoners  easily  recall  this  older  street,  in 
which  Mrs.  Lirriper  waged  her  eight-and-thirty  years' 
warfare  with  lodgers  and  servant-girls,  and  was  em- 
bittered by  the  business  rivalry  of  Miss  Wozenham, 
who  took  in  lodgers  over  the  way  for  less  money 
than  herself,  yet  gave  her  servants  higher  wages, 
besides  having  the  eiTrontery  to  advertise  her  apart- 
ments in  Bradshaw's  Railway  Guide. 

In  those  days  I  think  Norfolk  Street  had  much  the 
same  aspect  as  Craven  Street,  near  Charing  Cross. 
Its  houses  had  seen  some  notable  residents.  In  one 
of  them  lived  and  died  Dr.  Brocklesby,  ever  to  be 
remembered  as  the  physician  who  attended  Lord 
Chatham  in  the  tragical  scene  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
and  comforted  the  last  days  of  Dr.  Johnson.  John- 
son and  Burke  could  never  speak  highly  enough  of 
Brocklesby.  A  touching  story  is  told  of  his  death  in 
Norfolk  Street.  In  December,  1797,  he  determined 
to  visit  Mrs.  Burke,  then  a  widow,  at  Beaconsfield. 
A  friend  feared  that  he  was  too  old  and  weak  for 
the  journey,  and  sought  to  dissuade  him  ;  but  the  old 
man  replied  :  "  My  good  friend,  I  perfectly  under- 
stand your  hint,  and  am  thankful  to  you  for  it ;  but 
where's  the  difference,  whether  I  die  at  a  friend's 
house,  at  an  inn,  or  in  a  post-chaise  ?     I  hope  I  am 


THE  STREET  OF  THE   SAGGING  PURPOSE     i8i 

in  every  way  prepared  for  such  an  event,  and  perhaps 
it  is  as  well  to  elude  the  expectation  of  it."  Leigh 
Hunt  comments  :  "  This  was  said  like  a  man  and  a 
friend.  Brocklesby  was  not  one  who  would  cant 
about  giving  trouble  at  such  a  moment — the  screen 
of  those  who  hate  to  be  troubled  ;  neither  would  he 
grudge  a  friend  the  melancholy  satisfaction  of  giving 
him  a  bed  to  die  in.  He  better  understood  the  first 
principles  which  give  light  and  life  to  the  world,  and 
left  jealousy  and  misgiving  to  the  vulgar."  The  good 
doctor  went  down  to  Beaconsfield,  returned  a  few 
days  later,  and  died.  He  was  laid  in  the  churchyard 
of  St.  Clement  Danes. 

Mowbray  House,  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  long  and 
memorably  associated  with  the  late  Mr.  W.  T.  Stead, 
stands,  as  I  reckon,  on  the  site  of  the  residence  of 
Albany  Wallis,  who  died  here  in  his  eighty-seventh 
year,  in  1800.  He  was  a  wealthy  solicitor.  The 
'*  Gentleman's  Magazine,"  in  an  obituary  notice,  says 
that  his  abilities  were  of  a  very  inferior  kind,  but  that 
he  was  so  taciturn  that  the  world  imagined  ''more 
was  meant  than  met  the  ear."  It  was  Albany  Wallis 
who  raised,  at  the  cost  of  ;£iooo,  the  monument  to 
Garrick  in  the  Abbey.  He  had  lived  for  many  years 
in  close  friendship  with  the  great  actor,  had  been  his 
executor,  and  had  helped  to  bear  his  pall  at  the 
funeral.  But  his  interest  in  the  monument  was 
explained  in  various  ways  of  unkindness.  It  was  said 
that  he  had  paid  his  addresses  to  Garrick's  widow,  and 
that,  being  rejected,  he  raised  the  Abbey  monument 
out  of  pique,  leaving  Mrs.  Garrick  to  be  blamed  for 
neglecting  such  a  tribute — an  omission  which  the 
*'  Gentleman's,"  resolved  to  be  impartially  disagree- 
able, said  would  entail  eternal  disgrace  upon  the 
person    from    whom    such    a    mark    of    admiration, 


i82  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

gratitude,  and  affection  was  on  all  hands  expected.^ 
Not  satisfied  with  this  innuendo,  the  genial  obituarist 
suggested  that  Wallis  was  not  the  man  to  take  any 
revenge  that  involved  expense,  and  that  his  motive 
might  be  an  ambition  to  link  his  name  for  ever  with 
Garrick's,  to  "share  the  triumph  and  partake  the 
gale  "  of  the  actor's  renown. 

Garrick's  name  is  my  reminder  that  the  accepted 
note  of  the  Strand  is  the  theatre.  But  the  drama 
and  its  annals  are  Hke  the  violoncello  that  Dr.  Johnson 
did  not  dare  play  ;  they  tend  to  exclude  all  other 
subjects  by  their  complexity  and  fascination.  In  a 
quarter  of  a  century  we  have  seen  great  figures  pass 
from  the  Strand.  It  must  needs  be  so,  for  Time  has 
mown  down  players  and  theatres  together.  Five 
theatres  have  been  uprooted  :  the  Globe,  the  Opera 
Comique,  the  Olympic,  the  Strand,  and  the  Old 
Gaiety.  There  have  been  compensations,  but  I 
boggle  at  the  chaos  of  memories,  from  which  two 
visions  arise  with  that  acute  appeal  which  justifies 
a  word:  Irving's  '^Jingle"  and  Mr.  Dan  Leno. 
And  of  Irving's  "Jingle"  I  have  nothing  to  say  except 
that  I  am  as  glad  to  have  seen  it  as  to  have  seen  any- 
thing the  comic  stage  has  offered  in  latter  years. 

Mr.  Dan  Leno  did  not  belong  specially  to  the 
Strand's  footlights — he  was  seen  elsewhere — but  I 
connect  him  most  with  the  Tivoli  Music-hall.  Not 
to  have  seen  Dan  Leno,  not  to  have  seen  him  often, 
is  now  a  misfortune  one  may  be  glad  to  be  spared.  I 
doubt  whether  any  man  has  charmed  Londoners  so 
much  since  Garrick.  And  I  am  careless  of  mixing 
him  up  with  the  masters  of  "legitimate"  drama, 
because  he  is  certainly  to  be  mixed  with  them,  and 

'  Mrs.  Garrick  had  already  raised  a  monument  to  her  husband  in 
Lichfield  Cathedral, 


STRAND    DEMOLITIONS,    1902 

THE   ISLAND    BLOCK   THAT   SEPARATED   THE   TWO   STRAND   CHURCHES 
AND  HID  THEM  FROM  EACH  OTHER  BECAME  AIRY  NOTHING  TEN  YEARS 
AGO      (p.  179) 


THE   STREET   OF   THE   SAGGING   PURPOSE     183 

with  all  masters,  in  the  class  of  genius.  The  man 
who,  in  any  calling,  seems  to  add  something  to  all 
that  visible  or  comprehended  effort  can  attain  has 
genius.  Leno  brought  something  upon  the  stage  that 
was  not  in  his  song,  or  in  his  talk,  or  in  any  of  his 
nameable  qualities,  even  in  his  humour.  None  of 
these  really  distinguished  him  from  others.  It  was 
the  rush  of  whimsical  sympathy  from  the  little  man 
that  made  him  great.  Who  can  forget  that  dry, 
pleading,  coaxing,  arguing  voice,  hoarse  with  its 
eagerness,  yet  mellow  with  sheer  kindliness  and 
sweetness  of  character  ? 

In  cold  print  Dan  Leno's  humour  is  vulgar  with 
the  vulgarity  of  the  music-halls,  but  on  Leno's  lips 
all  that  was  consumed  as  by  fire.  The  sordid  things 
of  life — poverty,  debt,  domestic  jars — lost  their  hurt 
under  his  ingenuities  and  catastrophes  of  candour. 
In  describing  the  house  he  had  bought  ("  Buying  a 
House")  he  said  :  '^  When  you  look  through  the  side- 
window  the  view  is  obstructed  by  trees.  Well,  they 
have  been  trees,  but  they're  not  now,  they've  been 
split.  They're  planks  ;  in  fact,  it's  really  a  bill-posting 
station." 

His  humour  depended  on  its  delivery ;  it  was  a 
lightning  gift  from  man  to  man  ;  an  exquisite,  reck- 
less, irresistible  fandango  of  fun  round  the  little 
foibles  of  some  familiar  character — a  doctor,  a  waiter, 
a  shopwalker,  a  beefeater — yet  so  loosely  tethered 
to  its  subject  as  to  be  free  to  indulge  in  any  number 
of  drolleries  of  speech,  verbal  contortions,  and  what 
not.  The  unifying  quality  was  the  man's  gusto. 
He  drowned  drollery  in  drollery,  he  annihilated 
thought ;  he  seemed  to  absorb  all  the  earnestness  in 
the  house  and  use  it  before  our  eyes  to  make  us 
laugh.     And   there  was  nothing  merely  expert  in  his 


i84  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

rapidity  ;  the  expertness  was  there,  but  it  was  the 
rapidity  of  expertness  in  the  temperature  of  kindness. 

This  gave  Leno  his  supremacy.  Other  music-hall 
singers  used  the  same  comic  material,  but  no  one 
approached  him  in  the  art  of  buttonholing  an 
audience,  say,  rather,  in  loving  it.  The  tone  of  sym- 
pathy, of  privacy,  never  left  his  voice.  He  was  for 
ever  making  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  beginning  again 
in  a  new  frenzy  of  confidence  or  warning.  In  all 
this  you  felt  that  he  was  acting  with  the  stream  of 
his  character,  that  he  was  indeed  the  kindest  and  most 
ebullient  of  men,  and  a  delicious  observer. 

A  small  boy  might  have  invented  much  of  Leno's 
nonsense,  but  only  a  great  artist  and  a  good  man 
could  have  made  the  heart  laugh  with  it.  In  his 
song  '^  The  Jap  "  he  said  he  had  been  to  Japan  as 
a  tea-merchant,  but  the  man  who  sold  him  plants 
made  a  mistake  and  gave  him  rhubarb.  Finding 
that  he  could  not  sell  it,  he  tried  to  pass  it  off  as  "  a 
kind  of  new  season  shou-shou."  A  boy  might  have 
said  "  shou-shou " ;  there  was  no  attempt  to  be  more 
Japanese  than  the  "Jap,"  to  coin  a  clever  word 
that  the  audience  could  not  have  coined.  He  just 
rapped  out  "  shou-shou,"  and  the  house  crowed  like 
a  child.  And  when  a  little  later  he  began  a  pre- 
posterous love  episode  by  saying,  with  his  inimit- 
able air  of  making  things  clear,  "One  morning  I 
was  watering  the  shou-shou,"  every  one  crowed  with 
gladness. 

Leno's  jokes  did  not  seem  to  be  fabricated,  but 
to  happen,  and  even  so  they  came  fast  as  a  prairie 
fire.  He  was  always  driving  on  to  some  insane 
urgency  ahead,  or  stopping  to  get  himself — and  us — 
out  of  some  imbecile  muddle.  His  understanding 
with   his  audience   was  the   essence  of  his  success, 


THE  STREET   OF  THE  SAGGING  PURPOSE     185 

and  he  knew  this  so  well  that  he  could  play  with 
it.  What  a  triumph  was  his  fuss  of  incredulity  when 
he  affected  to  see  in  our  faces  a  blankness  at  his 
casual  mention  of  a  certain  Mrs.  Kelly.  "  Good  lif e-a- 
mighty  !  don't  look  so  simple.  She's  a  cousin  of  Mrs. 
Nipletts,  and  her  husband  keeps  the  what-not  shop 
at  the —  Oh,  you  must  know  Mrs.  Kelly,  everybody 
knows  Mrs.  Kelly."  As  Mrs.  Kelly's  name  recurred, 
not  only  she,  but  all  her  kin  and  acquaintance,  all  her 
twopenny-halfpenny  dealings  and  disputes,  seemed 
to  take  shape,  until — as  the  repetition  in  changing 
keys  went  on — whole  breadths  of  London  rushed 
into  view,  all  the  flickering  street-corners  on  Saturday 
nights,  all  the  world  of  crowded  doorsteps  and 
open  windows,  where  Mrs.  Kelly  is  Mrs.  Kelly. 
Nothing  would  do  until  we  had  acknowledged 
a  lifelong  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Kelly,  and  upon 
this  immense  confirmation  of  her  existence  came 
overwhelming  mirth,  having  its  seat  in  sheer  realiza- 
tion of  life.     Only  Leno  could  do  this. 


CHAPTER   VIII 
A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON 

The  Abbey  and  an  Adventure — Chateaubriand — The  Despoilers — 
Antiquities  as  Playthings — Charles  Lamb — "  Royalest  Seed  " — King 
Henry  orders  his  tomb — "They  do  bury  fools  there" — "Hie  prope 
Chaucerum  " — **  Two  feet  by  two  " — Sir  Isaac  Newton — Garrick's 
Funeral — Byron's  Home-coming — Chapel  of  the  Pyx — The  National 
Quarter— The  Fire  of  1834— The  Horse  Guards'  Parade— Signalling 
to  the  Fleet— The  York  Column—"  A  Shocking  Bad  Hat  "—Cleopa- 
tra's Needle  for  Waterloo  Bridge — A  Congress  of  Wounds — The 
Evicted  Rooks — The  King's  Palace — Her  Grace  of  Buckinghamshire — 
The  Marble  Arch— Hyde  Park  Corner— The  Duke  and  the  Statue 

WHO  forgets,  and  who  recovers,  his  first 
vision  of  the  Abbey  towers,  grey  above 
the  trees,  moored  as  it  were  in  the  sea  of 
time,  and  bathed  in  the  aura  of  a  race  ?  My  own  is 
enhanced  in  recollection  by  a  boyish  adventure.  It 
befell  that  for  ten  minutes  in  the  dusk  of  a  summer 
evening  I  was  locked  up  alone  among  the  roj'^al  tombs. 
I  had  arrived  late,  and  in  the  rustic  frenzy  of  my 
fifteen  years.  The  verger,  relenting  from  the  rules, 
took  me  up  the  deeply  shadowed  nave.  Unlocking 
the  iron  gates  at  the  south  of  the  Sacrarium  he 
passed  me  into  the  heart  of  the  Abbey,  telling  me 
that  I  might  walk  round  to  the  corresponding  north 
gates  where  he  would  meet  me  in  ten  minutes.     It  was 

magnificent,  but  sudden,  and  I  was  subdued  when  he 

18 


A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S  LONDON      187 

locked  the  gate  and  walked  away  in  the  gloom.  I 
moved  uneasily  round  the  chapels,  not  fearing,  I  think, 
a  kingly  ghost,  but  the  faint  roar  of  London  seemed 
to  have  become  an  inarticulate  cosmic  murmur  and 
an  insufBcient  assurance  of  life  in  this  august  home  of 
death.  Consequently  I  was  peering  through  the  north 
gate  long  before  my  time.  The  minutes  dragged. 
A  rush  of  apprehension  seized  me,  I  climbed  the 
iron  gate,  ran  like  a  deer  down  the  aisle,  and  darted 
through  the  door  as  if  royal  dust  were  indeed  stirring. 
Bounding  into  the  street,  I  was  aware  of  my  verger 
musing  in  the  entrance.     He  said  not  a  word — nor  L 

It  must  have  been  in  a  calmer  mood,  or  with 
stronger  nerves,  that  Chateaubriand,  locked  accident- 
ally in  the  Abbey,  passed  a  whole  night  there.  He 
looked  around  for  a  lair,  and  found  it,  he  tells  us, 
^'  near  the  monument  of  Lord  Chatham  at  the  bottom 
of  the  gallery  of  the  Chapel  of  the  Knights  and  that 
of  Henry  VIL  At  the  entrance  to  the  steps  leading 
to  the  aisles,  shut  in  by  folding  gates,  a  tomb  fixed 
in  the  wall,  and  opposite  a  marble  figure  of  death 
with  a  scythe,  furnished  me  a  shelter.  A  fold  in 
the  marble  winding-sheet  served  me  as  a  niche ; 
after  the  example  of  Charles  V,  I  habituated  myself 
to  my  interment." ' 

It  appears,  then,  that  I  entered  Westminster  Abbey 
thirty  years  ago  under  a  regime  that  had  not  begun  the 
enforcement  of  strict  rule  and  the  scrutiny  of  hand- 
bags ;  the  old  era  of  official  insouciance  had  left  a 
chink  through  which  a  country  boy  could  be  allowed  to 
wander  at  his  will  in  the  mausoleum.  This  gives  me  a 
sense  of  another,  an  older,  London — the  London  that 
changed  perhaps  on  that  Sunday  afternoon   in  1887, 

'  It  is  not  possible  to  identify  the  spot  from  Chateaubriand's  descrip- 
tion, which  seems  to  be  muddled. 


i88  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

when  into  the  whirlpool  of  Trafalgar  Square  the  Grena- 
diers marched  from  St.  George's  Barracks  with  ball  car- 
tridge, and  the  Life  Guards  came  pricking  up  Whitehall 
with  quite  a  new  kind  of  glitter.  A  great  deal  of  the 
picturesque  ruination  in  the  Abbey  to-day  is  due  less 
to  the  attritions  of  Time  than  to  such  indulgence  as 
I  had  received.  Many  who  formerly  came  to  meditate 
remained  to  carve.  The  Coronation  Chair  is  covered 
with  the  initials  of  these  disastrous  folk,  who  often 
found  leisure  to  add  the  date  of  their  depredations. 
Some  of  them  cut  their  honest  names  on  the  State 
Shield  of  Edward  III.  Others,  bent  more  on  relics 
than  personal  immortality,  removed  mosaic  and  jewels 
and  brass  plates,  or  wrenched  off  the  minor  images 
and  ornaments  from  the  great  tombs.  The  shrine 
of  Edward  the  Confessor  is  now  a  dull  erection  of 
stones  ;  formerly  it  blazed  with  many  golden  statuettes, 
each  decked  with  insignia  set  with  rubies,  onyx,  and 
pearls.  It  displayed  fifty-five  large  cameos,  and  where 
there  was  no  such  encrustation  the  fabric  was  aglow 
with  mosaic.  Hardly  a  handbreadth  of  this  splendour 
remains.  The  silver  head  of  the  effigy  of  Henry  III 
was  stolen  centuries  ago.  '^  Some  Whig,  I'll  war- 
rant you,"  suggested  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  ;  "  you 
ought  to  lock  up  your  kings  better  ;  they  will  carry 
off  the  body  too  if  you  don't  take  care." 

To  realize  the  cynical  neglect  of  the  Abbey  in  the 
eighteenth  century  one  may  turn  to  John  Thomas 
Smith's  '*  Nollekens  and  his  Times."  NoUekens,  who 
had  been  a  pupil  of  Scheemakers,  did  much  work  in 
the  Abbey,  and  Smith,  who  was  in  turn  the  pupil  of 
Nollekens,  was  often  with  him  in  the  building.  It  was 
the  great  monumental  period  when  many  a  corner  of 
the  Abbey  resembled  a  sculptor's  studio.  Could  any- 
thing be  more  grotesquely  informing  than  the  following 


A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      189 

snatches  of  dialogue  between  the  artists  and  care- 
takers reported  by  Smith  ?  Nollekens  is  talking  in  his 
uncouth  way  to  Mr.  Catling,  the  verger. 

*'  Nollekens :  '  Why,  Mr.  Catling,  you  seem  to  be  as 
fond  of  the  Abbey  as  I  am  of  my  models  by  Michel- 
angelo. My  man  Finny  tells  me  you  was  born 
in  it.' 

''Catling:  'No,  not  in  the  Abbey;  I  was  born  in 
the  tower  on  the  right  hand,  just  before  you  enter  into 
the  little  cloisters.' 

"  Nollekens  :  '  Oh,  I  know  ;  there's  some  steps  to  go 
up  and  a  wooden  rail  to  hold  by.  Now,  I  wonder  you 
don't  lose  that  silver  thing  that  you  carry  before  the 
Dean  when  you  are  going  through  the  cloisters.  Pray, 
why  do  you  suffer  the  schoolboys  to  chalk  the  stones 
all  over  ?  I  have  been  spelling  "  pudding,"  "  grease," 
"  lard,"  "  butter,"  "  kitchen-stuff,"  and  I  don't  know 
what  all.  .  .  .  You  had  better  tell  Mr.  Dean  to  see 
that  the  monuments  don't  want  dusting,  and  to  look 
after  the  Westminster  boys,  and  not  let  them  break 
the  ornaments  off  to  play  at  sconces  with  in  the 
cloisters.' 

"  Gay  fere  (the  Abbey  mason):  *Ah,  Mr.  Nollekens, 
are  you  here  ?  ' 

"Nollekens:  'Here?  Yes;  and  why  do  you  suffer 
that  Queen  Anne's  altar  to  remain  here,  in  a  Gothic 
building  ?  Send  it  back  to  Whitehall,  where  it  came 
from.  And  why  don't  you  keep  a  better  lookout,  and 
not  suffer  the  fingers  of  the  figures  and  the  noses  of 
busts  to  be  knocked  off  by  them  Westminster  boys  ? 

"  Gay/ere  :  *  Why,  what  an  ungrateful  little  man  you 
are  !  Don't  it  give  you  a  job  now  and  then  ?  Did 
not  Mr.  Dolben  have  a  new  nose  put  upon  Camden's 
face  the  other  day  at  his  own  expense  ?  I  believe  I  told 
you  that  I  carried  the  rods  when  Fleetcraft  measured 


I90  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

the  last  work  at  the  north  tower  when  the  Abbey  was 
finished.' 

*'Nollekens:  *  There's  the  bell  tolling.  Oh  no,  it's 
the  quarters.  I  used  to  hear  them  when  I  was  in  the 
Abbey  working  with  my  master,  Scheemakers.  There's 
a  bird  flying.' 

'' Gay/ere :  'A  bird  ?  Ay,  you  may  see  a  hundred 
birds  ;  they  come  in  at  the  broken  panes  of  glass.' 

"  Nollekens :  ^  What  have  you  done  with  the  old 
Gothic  pulpit?' 

^^  Catling:  "  It  has  been  conveyed  to  our  vestry,  the 
Chapel  of  St.  Blaize,  south  of  Poet's  Corner  ;  a  very 
curious  part  of  the  Abbey,  not  often  shown — did  you 
ever  see  it  ?  It's  very  dark  ;  there  is  an  ancient  pic- 
ture on  the  east  wall  of  a  figure,  which  can  be  made 
out  tolerably  well  after  the  eye  is  accustomed  to  the 
dimness  of  the  place.  Did  you  ever  notice  the  remain- 
ing colours  of  the  curious  little  figure  that  was  painted 
on  the  tomb  of  Chaucer  ?  ' 

*^  Nollekens :  *  No,  that's  not  at  all  in  my  way.' 

« <  Pray,  Mr.  Nollekens,'  asked  Mr.  Champneys, 
*  can  you  give  me  the  name  of  the  sculptor  who 
executed  the  basso-relief  of  Townsend's  monument  ? 
I  have  applied  to  several  of  my  friends  among  the 
artists,  but  I  have  never  been  able  to  obtain  it ;  in  my 
opinion  the  composition  and  style  of  carving  are  ad- 
mirable ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  find  that  some  evil-minded 
person  has  stolen  one  of  the  heads.' 

^^ Nollekens:  *  That's  what  I  say.  Dean  Horsley 
should  look  after  the  monuments  himself.  Hang 
his  waxworks  1 ' " 

All  this  scarcely  bears  out  Charles  Lamb's  scepti- 
cism about  Abbey  depredations  in  his  essay  on  the 
tombs.  He  says  ;  *'  For  forty  years  that  I  have  known 
the  fabric  the  only   well-attested  charge  of  violation 


A   WALK   THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      191 

adduced  has  been  a  ridiculous  dismemberment  com- 
mitted upon  the  effigy  of  that  amiable  spy,  Major 
Andre."  But  the  mischief  had  been  done,  and  the 
danger  remained.  The  instance  that  Lamb  allows 
is  a  curious  one.  Acting  under  the  rules  of  war, 
Washington  had  sentenced  Andre  to  death.  Every 
possible  effort  was  made  by  the  British  to  save  him, 
but  in  vain,  and  this  fine  British  officer  died  with 
serene  heroism.  The  whole  British  Army  went  into 
mourning,  and  in  1821  Andre  s  remains  were  brought 
to  Westminster  Abbey.  The  monumental  group  placed 
over  his  remains  was  several  times  mutilated,  and  more 
than  once  the  head  of  Washington  was  removed.  Two 
heads  taken  from  the  monument  were  returned  from 
America  to  the  Dean  many  years  ago  with  the  request 
that  they  might  be  replaced.  They  had  been  carried 
off  by  relic-hunters. 

The  Abbey  is  like  Shakespeare  :  all  men  know  it  a 
little  ;  few  know  it  intimately  or  can  cast  up  the  sum 
of  its  greatness.  The  kingliest  of  our  kings  lie  there ; 
those  who  ruled  over  ^*  Merry  England"  and  led  her 
soldiers  in  the  field.  Many  of  them  were  magnificent 
patrons  of  the  Church,  and  they  gave  their  bones  to  its 
keeping.  Henry  III,  the  builder  of  the  Abbey  as  we 
now  know  it,  prepared  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Con- 
fessor, which  was  for  ages  the  magnet  of  kings,  as 
Chaucer's  grave  of  poets. 

In  his  turn,  Henry  III,  the  "king  of  simple  life," 
as  Dante  called  him,  who  had  himself  carried  on 
his  head  the  Holy  Blood  to  Westminster  through  the 
streets  of  London,  was  entombed  by  Edward  I. 

Edward's  own  remains  were  placed  in  a  very  plain 
tomb,  perhaps  in  the  hope,  as  Dean  Stanley  suggests, 
that  it  might  be  possible  some  day  to  fulfil  that  famous 
"  pact "  that  he  made  with  his  son  on  his  deathbed, 


192  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

that  his  flesh  should  be  boiled  and  his  bones  carried 
at  the  head  of  the  English  Army  until  Scotland  was 
subdued.  It  is  certain  that  at  frequent  intervals  the 
body  of  the  greatest  of  the  Plantagenets  was  wrapped 
in  new  cere-cloths,  as  if  in  view  of  this  dramatic 
possibility. 

In  this  Chapel  of  the  Confessor,  whose  floor  is 
"paved  with  princes,"  lies  Henry  the  Fifth,  Harry  of 
England,  the  "Hector  of  his  age."  It  was  just  before 
his  departure  to  Agincourt  that  he  gave  precise 
directions  for  his  tomb  and  the  magnificent  chantry 
over  it. 

It  is  curious  that  the  king  who  represents  all  the 
strength  of  sovereignty  should  have  deposited  in  the 
Abbey  with  pious  pomp  the  remains  of  the  king  who 
represents  all  its  sentiment.  Whether  the  body  which 
he  laid  beside  Queen  Anne  of  Bohemia  by  Henry  V 
was  that  of  the  hapless  victim  of  Pontefract  Castle 
was  doubted  at  the  time,  the  mystery  being  involved 
in  the  whole  question  of  the  deposed  king's  fate.  But 
it  has  long  been  assumed  that  the  effigies  of  king  and 
queen  do  not  form  a  bitter  travesty. 

One  of  the  strangest  and  most  moving  stories  of  the 
Abbey  is  that  of  Henry  VI  choosing  his  grave  there, 
and  choosing  it  in  vain.  He  wished  to  be  near  his 
father,  and  he  came  to  see  the  spot  with  Fleete,  the 
Prior  and  historian  of  the  Abbey.  Lord  Cromwell 
also  attended  him,  and  the  master-mason  was  there. 
Dean  Stanley's  picture  of  the  scene  is  unforgettable. 

"  Henry  asked  Fleete,  with  a  strange  ignorance,  the 
names  of  the  kings  amongst  whose  tombs  he  stood 
till  he  came  to  his  father's  grave,  where  he  made  his 
prayer.  He  then  went  up  into  the  Chantry,  and  re- 
mained for  more  than  an  hour  surveying  the  whole 
chapel.     It  was  suggested   to  him   that  the  tomb  of 


A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      193 

Henry  V  should  be  pushed  a  little  on  one  side  and 
his  own  placed  beside  it.  With  more  regal  spirit  than 
was  usual  in  him,  he  replied,  ^  Nay,  let  him  alone ;  he 
lieth  like  a  noble  prince.     I  would  not  trouble  him.' 

"  Finally,  the  Abbot  proposed  that  the  great  Reli- 
quary should  be  moved  from  the  position  which  it 
now  occupied  close  beside  the  Shrine,  so  as  to  leave 
a  vacant  space  for  a  new  tomb.  The  devout  king 
anxiously  asked  whether  there  was  any  spot  where  the 
relics,  thus  a  second  time  moved,  could  be  deposited, 
and  was  told  that  they  might  stand  *  at  the  back  side 
of  the  altar.'  He  then  *  marked  with  his  foot  seven 
feet,'  and  turned  to  the  nobles  who  were  with  him. 
^  Lend  me  your  staff,'  he  said  to  the  Lord  Cromwell ; 
'  is  it  not  fitting  I  should  have  a  place  here,  where  my 
father  and  my  ancestors  lie,  near  St.  Edward  ? '  And 
then,  pointing  with  a  white  staff  to  the  spot  indicated, 
said,  'Here,  methinketh,  is  a  convenient  place';  and 
again,  still  more  emphatically,  and  with  the  peculiar 
asseveration  which,  in  his  pious  and  simple  lips,  took 
the  place  of  the  savage  oaths  of  the  Plantagenets, 
'  Forsooth,  forsooth,  here  will  we  lie  1  Here  is  a  good 
place  for  us.' 

"  The  master-mason  of  the  Abbey,  Thirsk  by  name, 
took  an  iron  instrument  and  traced  the  circuit  of  the 
grave  on  the  pavement.  Within  three  days  the  relics 
were  removed,  and  the  tomb  was  ordered.  The 
*  marbler '  (as  we  should  now  say,  the  statuary)  and 
the  coppersmith  received  forty  groats  for  their  instal- 
ment, and  gave  one  groat  to  the  workmen,  who  long 
remembered  the  conversation  of  their  masters  at 
supper  by  this  token." 

After  all,  Henry,  dying  in  the  Tower,  was  buried 
at  Chertsey,  and  then  his  bones  were  removed  by 
Richard  III  to  St.  George's  Chapel  at  Windsor. 


194  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Among  royal  interments  none  was  more  splendid 
or  touching  than  that  of  Mary  II.  Macaulay,  who 
notes  that  the  day  was  dark  and  troubled,  and  that 
"  a  few  ghastly  flakes  of  snow  fell  on  the  black  plumes 
of  the  funeral  car,"  seems  to  have  missed  one  little 
record.  A  robin  which  had  flown  into  the  Abbey 
perched  repeatedly  on  the  hearse,  and  was  noticed. 

George  II's  burial  has  been  described  in  his  usual 
vein  by  Horace  Walpole.  The  deaths  of  Hanoverian 
kings  and  princes  evoked  but  moderate  sorrow,  and 
though  Walpole  does  justice  to  the  scene  in  the 
Abbey  he  is  soon  recounting  the  fears  he  had  about 
precedence,  and  declaring  that  the  anthem  was  "  im- 
measurably tedious."  His  picture  of  the  "burlesque 
Duke  of  Newcastle"  fainting  in  his  stall,  "the  Arch- 
bishop hovering  over  him  with  a  smelling-bottle," 
adds  a  ridiculous  touch  to  the  picture. 

"  By  God,  I  will  not  be  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey  ! "  exclaimed  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  on  his  death- 
bed. Asked  why,  he  answered,  "  They  do  bury  fools 
there  ; "  and  he  was  laid  at  Twickenham.  This  was 
extravagance ;  nevertheless,  a  walk  round  the  Abbey 
will  establish  the  fact  that  hundreds  of  people  who 
have  no  interest  for  us  to-day  are  buried  with  states- 
men who  made  history,  and  with  poets  who  enlarged 
the  soul  of  man. 

Dean  Stanley  has  pointed  out  that  of  the  three 
greatest  names  in  England's  roll  of  intellect,  Shake- 
speare, Bacon,  and  Newton,  only  the  last  is  inscribed 
on  an  Abbey  tomb.  Shakespeare  has  a  monument, 
Bacon  nothing.  There  are  no  monuments  to  Keats, 
Shelley,  and  Byron.  Cowley  is  honoured  there,  but 
not  Waller ;  Beaumont,  but  not  Herrick  ;  Denham 
and  Drayton,  but  not  Marlowe  and  Suckling.  Milton's 
parodist,  John  Philips,  was  given  a  monument  in  the 


A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      195 

Abbey  at  a  time  when  Milton's  own  name  was  con- 
sidered as  an  impossible  ^^  pollution  of  its  walls." 
Some  absences  have  been  too  glaring  to  be  endured. 
Robert  Burns  was  given  a  bust  forty  years  ago  ;  Scott 
a  bust  only  seven  years  ago  ;  and  Coleridge's  bust  was 
unveiled  by  Mr.  Lowell  in  1885.  On  the  other  hand, 
Matthew  Arnold  is  represented  by  a  bust,  though 
few  visitors  find  it ;  here  promptitude  is  matched  by 
modernity,  for  you  may  study  the  cut  of  the  great 
critic's  coat  and  the  shape  of  his  collar  and  necktie. 
In  the  same  dark  corner  which  has  received  Arnold's 
bust  Wordsworth  is  represented  by  a  feeble  and 
moping  statue ;  why  is  not  our  greatest  poet  since 
Milton  honoured  in  Poets'  Corner  ? 

Chaucer's  grave  was  the  magnet  to  poetic  dust 
His  grey  marble  tomb,  erected  a  century  and  a  halt 
after  his  death,  is  still  the  most  beautiful  and  vener- 
able object  in  this  part  of  the  Abbey.  He  had  but 
a  short  journey  to  take  from  his  bed  to  his  grave, 
for  his  last  days  were  spent  in  a  tenement  in  the  Abbey 
garden,  on  ground  now  covered  by  the  Chapel  of 
Henry  VH.  His  last  words,  said  to  have  been  dic- 
tated on  his  death-bed,  should  always  be  given  in 
connexion  with  Chaucer's  passing  : — 

Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  wilderness. 
Forth,  pilgrim,  forth  !     O  beast,  out  of  thy  stall, 
Look  up  on  high,  and  thank  thy  God  of  all. 
Control  thy  lust ;  and  let  thy  spirit  thee  lead  ; 
And  Truth  shall  thee  deliver  ;  'tis  no  dread, 

Spenser,  Drayton,  Tennyson,  and  Browning  lie  near 
the  father  of  English  verse.  Spenser's  first  Latin 
epitaph,  long  superseded,  contained  the  words  : — 

Hie  prope  Chaucerum  situs  est  Spenserius  illi 
Proximus  ingenio,  proximus  ct  tumulo. 


196  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

This  inscription,  set  up  by  Anne  Clifford,  Countess 
of  Dorset,  was  replaced  in  1778  by  an  epitaph  which 
described  Spenser  as  "the  prince  of  poets  in  his 
tyme."  A  year  or  two  ago  the  crowbars  fell  on  little 
King  Street,  where  the  poet  of  all  virtue  died  on  a 
tavern  bed.  From  this  street — the  old  royal  way  into 
the  Abbey  precincts — he  was  followed  to  his  grave  by 
his  brother  poets,  who  presently  threw  their  elegies 
and  their  quills  upon  his  coffin.  Of  these  mourners 
Francis  Beaumont  was  the  next  to  be  laid  in  Poets' 
Corner. 

Drayton  followed,  and  again  an  Anne  Clifford  was 
the  giver  of  a  poet's  monument.  Ben  Jonson  usually 
receives  the  credit  of  the  epitaph,  but  Quarles  may  de- 
serve it.  It  is  good  to  know  that  Ben  is  in  the  Abbey. 
Poverty  and  neglect  darkened  his  latter  days.  Some 
premonition  that  he  might  be  shut  out  of  the  noble 
company  seems  to  have  haunted  his  mind.  There  is 
an  Abbey  legend  that  points  to  this.  It  is  said  that 
one  day,  being  rallied  by  the  Dean  of  Westminster 
about  being  buried  in  Poets'  Corner,  Jonson  re- 
marked :  "  I  am  too  poor  for  that,  and  no  one  will 
lay  out  funeral  charges  upon  me.  No,  sir,  6  feet 
long  by  2  feet  wide  is  too  much  for  me  ;  2  feet  by 
2  will  do  all  I  want."  "  You  shall  have  it,"  said  the 
Dean.  Apocryphal  as  the  story  sounds,  its  essential 
truth  is  supported  by  the  fact  that  in  1849,  when  Sir 
Robert  Watson's  gravj  was  being  made,  the  Clerk 
of  the  Works  "  saw  the  two  leg-bones  of  Jonson  fixed 
bolt  upright  in  the  sand,  as  though  the  body  had  been 
buried  in  the  upright  position  ;  and  the  skull  came 
rolling  down  among  the  sand  from  a  position  above 
the  leg-bones,  to  the  bottom  of  the  newly  made 
grave.  There  was  still  hair  upon  it,  and  it  was  of 
a  red  colour."      Unfortunately  the  grave  is  not  in 


A  WALK   THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      197 

Poets'  Corner,  as  Jonson's  bust  (on  the  same  wall  as 
the  monuments  of  Spenser  and  Milton)  may  lead  the 
pilgrim  to  believe.  The  slab  with  the  words,  *^  O 
Rare  Ben  Jonson,"  cut  upon  it  is  in  the  north  aisle 
of  the  nave.  The  stone  has  been  placed  against  the 
wall  for  its  better  preservation. 

The  coming  of  Dryden  in  1700  was  a  great  event 
in  the  annals  of  Poets'  Corner.  No  poet  has  a 
simpler  and  nobler  monument.  Chaucer's  tombstone 
is  said  to  have  been  sawn  asunder  in.  the  making  of 
his  grave.  At  first  he  had  no  epitaph,  and  Pope 
drew  attention  to  the  homelessness  of  *'  Dryden's 
awful  dust  "  in  his  epitaph  for  Rowe  : — 

Beneath  a  rude  and  nameless  stone  he  lies, 
To  which  thy  tomb  shall  guide  inquiring  eyes. 

It  is  said  to  have  been  on  this  hint  that  Dryden's 
patron,  Sheffield,  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire,  erected 
a  bust,  which  was  soon  replaced  by  the  present  one, 
a  masterpiece  of  Scheemakers'.  Dryden  is  one  of 
those  poets  whose  enmities  needed  the  ^'reconcilia- 
tions" of  the  Abbey.  It  is  curious,  nevertheless,  that 
Shadwell's  bust  and  Dryden's  are  removed  as  far  from 
each  other  as  possible,  and  that  their  faces  are  averted 
from  e*ch  other's  gaze  in  a  way  that  is  rather  amusing 
when  noticed  on  the  spot. 

Next  to  Shadwell  rests  Dryden's  far  more  dangerous 
critic,  Prior,  who  ridiculed  his  reign  at  Will's  Coffee- 
house. Why  is  Prior  so  little  remembered  as  a 
man  ?  He  must  have  been  a  delightful  fellow,  or  he 
could  not  have  spent  so  many  evenings  with  Swift ; 
the  Diary  to  Stella  is  full  of  Prior.  He  was  liker  to 
Horace  than  any  poet  we  have  bred,  though  he 
rather  desired  Horace's  life  than  lived  it.     The  wish 


198  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

for  the  simple  life  needs  no  better  expression  than 
he  gave  to  it : — 

Great  Mother,  let  me  once  be  able 
To  have  a  garden,  house,  and  stable, 
That  I  may  read,  and  write,  and  plant, 
Superior  to  desire  or  want ; 
And  as  health  fails,  and  years  increase. 
Sit  down,  think,  and  die  in  peace. 

Addison  had  preceded  Prior  to  the  Abbey  by  two 
years.  He  was,  so  to  speak,  born  to  be  buried  in 
the  Abbey.  His  piety,  his  learning,  his  wit,  his  pre- 
dilections, and  his  achievements  fitted  and  entitled 
him  to  such  honour.  And  his  is  a  classic  Abbey 
funeral.  "  On  the  north  side  of  that  Chapel,"  says 
Macaulay,  "in  the  vault  of  the  House  of  Albemarle, 
the  cofBn  of  Addison  lies  next  to  the  coffin  of 
Montague,  Yet  a  few  months ;  and  the  same 
mourners  passed  again  along  the  same  aisle.  The 
same  sad  anthem  was  again  chanted.  The  same 
vault  was  again  opened  ;  and  the  coffin  of  Craggs 
was  placed  close  to  the  coffin  of  Addison."  Macaulay 
himself  now  lies  close  to  Addison. 

The  funeral  of  Isaac  Newton  was  less  remarkable 
for  its  pomp  than  for  the  fact  that  among  those  who 
gathered  round  the  grave  was  Voltaire.  To  Newton 
was  allotted  one  of  the  two  fine  positions  on  either 
side  of  the  entrance  to  the  Choir.  This  position 
had  been  refused  to  various  noblemen  who  had 
applied  for  it. 

One  of  the  most  showy  of  Abbey  burials  was 
Garrick's.  It  cost  ;£i5oo.  There  were  thirty-three 
mourning  coaches  alone,  and  each  was  drawn  by 
six  horses.  When  the  extravagance  of  the  funeral 
was  being  discussed,  and  the  six  horses  to  each  coach 


A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S  LONDON      199 

were  mentioned  by  Mrs.  Burney,  Dr.  Johnson  snapped 
out,  '*  Madam,  there  were  no  more  six  horses  than  six 
phoenixes."  But  there  were.  Johnson  himself  rode 
in  the  nineteenth  coach,  Burke  and  Beauclerk  were  in 
the  preceding  coach,  and  Gibbon  was  in  the  twentieth. 
At  intervals  men  in  cloaks  rode  on  horseback,  and  the 
coaches  were  attended  by  pages.  The  coffin  was 
covered  with  crimson  velvet.  All  traffic  was  stopped 
for  two  hours  while  the  immense  procession  made  its 
way  from  Adelphi  Terrace.  Many  people  sat  on  the 
house-tops.  In  the  Abbey,  Burke  suggested  that  the 
statue  of  Shakespeare  seemed  to  be  pointing  to 
Garrick's  open  grave. 

Sheridan  was  buried  near  to  Garrick  and  Johnson. 
His  coffin  was  carried  by  dukes,  earls,  and  a  bishop. 
It  is  no  wonder,  considering  the  circumstances  of  his 
end,  that  a  French  newspaper  remarked  that  "  France 
is  the  place  for  a  man  of  letters  to  live  in,  and  England 
the  place  for  him  to  die  in." 

It  is  curious  that  the  body  of  Sheridan,  for  whom 
Byron  had  so  much  liking,  and  whose  character  he 
defended,  rested  in  Great  George  Street,  waiting  burial 
in  the  Abbey,  and  that  Byron's  remains  lay  there  only 
to  be  turned  from  the  Abbey  doors.  Macaulay  refers 
to  this  accident,  and  to  the  feelings  of  those  who  saw 
the  long  train  of  coaches  turn  slowly  northwards, 
*' leaving  behind  it  that  cemetery  which  had  been 
consecrated  by  the  dust  of  so  many  great  poets, 
but  of  which  the  doors  were  closed  against  all  that 
remained  of  Byron."  Dean  Stanley  refused  to  judge 
harshly  either  Byron's  claims  to  an  Abbey  burial  or 
the  convictions  of  those  who  refused  it.  But  his  own 
sympathies  are  clear.  "If  Byron  was  turned  from  the 
door,  many  a  one  as  questionable  as  Byron  has  been 
admitted.     Close  above  the  monument  of  the  devoted 


aoo  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

Granville  Sharpe  is  the  monument  of  the  epicurean 
St,  Evremond.  Close  behind  the  tablet  of  the  blame- 
less Wharton  lies  the  licentious  Congreve."  It  was 
on  12  July,  1824,  that  the  strange  scene  was  enacted. 
Byron  had  died  on  19  April  at  Missolonghi.  Twenty- 
one  days'  mourning  by  the  Greeks  had  followed,  and 
it  was  not  until  2  May  that  the  body  was  embarked, 
amid  the  firing  of  minute-guns,  on  the  brig  "Florida" 
for  England.  Even  the  news  of  his  death  did  not 
reach  London  until  14  May.  It  is  impossible  to 
convey  an  idea  of  the  impression  made  when  the 
words  ran  through  England  — "  Byron  is  dead." 
Men's  breath  was  taken  away  to  hear  that  this 
man,  whose  excess  of  life  was  manifested  alike  in 
his  virtues  and  faults,  in  his  genius  and  personality, 
had  died  in  an  endeavour  to  free  Greece.  In  one 
of  his  letters  Byron  had  protested  that  he  would 
never  allow  his  dead  body  to  be  brought  home 
Hke  Nelson's  in  a  cask ;  and,  indeed,  if  the  spectacular 
element  in  his  hfe  had  been  allowed  to  rule  the 
manner  of  his  burial,  he  would  not  have  been  laid 
to  his  rest  like  a  county  magnate  in  the  heart  of 
England.  On  some  lonely  ^Egean  isle,  or  on  some 
Grecian  promontory,  dear  to  poet  and  historian, 
Byron's  obelisk  would  have  caught  the  first  and 
last  rays  of  the  sun. 

But  on  I  July  the  ship  "Florida"  brought  his 
remains  to  the  Downs.  It  was  known  that  an 
application  for  an  Abbey  burial  would  be  refused, 
and  it  had  been  decided  that  Byron  should  be 
laid  in  the  family  vault  at  Hucknall  Torkard,  a 
mile  or  two  from  Newstead  Abbey,  amid  the 
scenes  which  had  been  associated  with  his  boyish 
passion  for  Mary  Chaworth.  It  seems  probable  that 
his  remains  were  brought  to  Westminster  by  the  very 


A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      201 

route  over  which,  with  infinite  vivacity  of  description, 
he  had  made  Don  Juan  enter  London. 

On  the  12th  Thomas  Moore  breakfasted  with 
Samuel  Rogers.  At  half-past  nine  they  set  off. 
George  Street,  as  they  saw  it,  has  virtually  dis- 
appeared in  recent  years.  When  Moore  saw  the 
house  and  the  crowd  and  the  undertaker's  men, 
he  was  seized  with  a  nervous  trembling  amounting 
to  illness.  The  scene  lives  in  his  Diary.  The  pro- 
cession started,  Moore  riding  in  a  coach  along  with 
four  others — Rogers,  Campbell,  Colonel  Stanhope, 
and  a  Greek  Deputy.  As  they  turned  out  of  George 
Street  he  saw  a  lady  crying  in  a  barouche,  and  said 
to  himself,  ^'  Bless  her  heart,  whoever  she  is."  Most 
of  the  mourners  left  the  procession  at  St.  Pancras 
turnpike,  and  returned  to  town.  It  was  not  until  he 
was  crossing  the  Park  with  Rogers  that  Moore  felt 
the  full  pathos  of  the  day.  Here,  strangely  enough,  they 
met  a  soldier's  funeral,  and  the  bugles  were  wailing 
out  the  air,  **  I'm  wearin'  awa'  like  snaw  wreaths." 
Had  they  continued  the  journey  north  they  would 
have  seen  much  else  to  mov^e  their  feelings.  As  the 
cortege  wound  its  way  up  through  Kentish  Town 
it  passed  a  small  house,  from  the  windows  of  which 
it  was  watched  by  the  widows  of  Shelley  and  Captain 
Williams,  whose  husbands'  drowned  bodies  had  been 
burned  in  Byron's  presence  on  the  wild  beach  at 
Leghorn.  Mrs.  Shelley  wrote  afterwards :  *'  What 
should  I  have  said  to  a  Cassandra  who,  three 
years  ago,  should  have  prophesied  that  Jane  and  I — 
Williams  and  Shelley  gone — should  watch  the  funeral 
procession  of  Lord  Byron  up  Highgate  Hill  ?  All 
changes  of  romance  or  drama  lag  far  behind  this." 

The  contiguity  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament  to  the 
Abbey  is  one  of   the   impressive   things  of   London 


202  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

The  Abbey,  Westminster  Hall,  St.  Stephen's,  and  the 
Government  offices  combine  to  make  a  great  group 
of  national  symbols.  Their  neighbourliness  is,  of 
course,  a  matter  of  development  rather  than  design,  yet 
less  than  eighty  years  ago  there  was  a  danger  that 
this  great  national  congeries  would  be  broken  up  for 
ever. 

The  story  is  worth  retelling.  On  the  night  of 
i6  October,  1834,  a  man  of  forty  was  one  of  an 
excited  band  of  passengers  on  the  coach  from 
Brighton  to  London.  Far  away  on  the  horizon  a 
red  light  was  pulsing  wickedly,  and  at  intervals 
a  bright  glow  struck  the  clouds  above.  At  last 
the  passengers'  shouts  of  inquiry  were  answered. 
The  Houses  of  Parliament  were  on  lire.  In  this, 
as  in  every  other  direction,  the  news  had  travelled 
fast.  At  Dudley  it  was  known  within  three  hours. 
To  the  man  of  forty  on  the  Brighton  coach  it  meant 
more  than  to  most  people.  Charles  Barry  had  been 
born  under  the  Palace  of  Westminster  ;  and  now,  as 
the  sky  reddened,  the  thought  came  to  him  that  he 
might  be  chosen  to  rebuild  it — a  true  presentiment. 

An  appalling  spectacle  awaited  the  travellers.  The 
sky  was  invaded  by  smoke  and  embers,  and  from  every 
suburb  crowds  were  pouring  to  the  bridges.  Three 
regiments  of  Guards  had  turned  out.  The  crowd 
knew  that  the  home  of  British  liberty,  the  sanctuary 
of  civil  rights,  perhaps  the  Hall  of  Rufus  itself — 
unrivalled  in  the  world,  and  dear  now,  if  it  never 
was  before,  to  their  hearts — were  in  the  greatest 
peril.  And  it  had  but  one  thought  :  could  West- 
minster Hall  be  saved  ?  At  the  centre  that  hope 
became  determined  effort.  Engines  were  taken  into 
the  interior,  ready  to  pour  water  into  Richard  the 
Second's   oaken   roof.     It   was  a  scene   which    men 


A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      203 

were  to  remember  on  their  death-beds.  An  eye- 
witness says  that  behind  the  dreadful  pother  the 
grey  towers  of  the  Abbey  seemed  asleep  in  the 
moonlight;  unconscious  of  the  red  tinge  that  played 
among  her  buttresses. 

From  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  there  is  never 
more  than  a  step.  Old  Dean  Ireland,  aghast  and 
dusty,  was  standing  with  his  Keeper  of  the  Records 
on  the  roof  of  the  Abbey  Chapter  House.  A  gust 
of  wind  swept  the  flames  towards  them.  The  Keeper, 
foreseeing  even  more  dreadful  things,  implored  him 
to  descend  and  save  the  inestimable  treasures  of  the 
church.  But  John  Ireland  was  not  a  Very  Reverend 
Dean  in  an  Established  Church  for  nothing.  He 
knew  his  place,  and  while  the  sparks  were  blowing 
over  Henry  the  Seventh's  Chapel  he  firmly  replied 
that  he  could  not  think  of  moving  anything  without 
permission  from  the  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury.  Yet 
had  he  gone  to  consult  Lord  Melbourne  he  would 
certainly  have  been  rewarded  with  an  oath. 

When  the  fire  was  in  hand  London  breathed  again. 
Hall  and  Abbey  stood  untouched  amid  the  acres  of 
smoking  ruins.  The  cause  of  this  unparalleled  disaster 
is  one  of  the  jests  of  history,  and  it  was  never  told  with 
more  humour  than  by  Charles  Dickens.  In  an  after- 
dinner  speech  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  he  said  : — 

^•Ages  ago  a  savage  mode  of  keeping  accounts  on 
notched  sticks  was  introduced  into  the  Court  of 
Exchequer,  and  the  accounts  were  kept  much  as 
Robinson  Crusoe  kept  his  calendar  on  the  desert 
island,  on  certain  splints  of   elm-wood  called  tallies. 

"  In  the  Reign  of  George  III  an  inquiry  was  made 
by  some  revolutionary  spirit  whether — pens,  ink,  and 
paper,  slates  and  pencils,  being  in  existence — this 
obstinate  adherence  to  an  obsolete  custom  ought  to  be 


204  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

continued,  and  whether  a  change  ought  not  to  be 
effected.  All  the  red  tape  in  the  country  grew  redder 
at  the  bare  mention  of  this  bold  and  original  con- 
ception, and  it  took  till  1826  to  get  these  sticks 
abolished.  In  1834  it  was  found  that  there  was  a 
considerable  accumulation  of  them  ;  and  the  question 
then  arose — what  was  to  be  done  with  such  worn-out, 
rotten  old  bits  of  wood  ?  It  came  to  pass  that  they 
were  burnt  in  a  stove  in  the  House  of  Lords.  The 
stove,  overgorged  with  these  preposterous  sticks,  set  fire 
to  the  panelling ;  the  panelling  set  fire  to  the  House  of 
Lords  ;  the  House  of  Lords  set  lire  to  the  House  of 
Commons  ;  the  two  houses  were  reduced  to  ashes  ; 
architects  were  called  in  to  build  others  ;  and  we  are 
now  in  the  second  million  of  the  cost  thereof ;  the 
national  pig  is  not  nearly  over  the  stile  yet ;  and  the 
little  old  woman,  Britannia,  hasn't  got  home  to-night." 

The  old  Palace  of  Westminster  was  all  but  de- 
stroyed. St.  Stephen's  Chapel,  where  the  House  of 
Commons  had  sat  for  centuries,  was  reduced  to  a  few 
blackened  walls.  It  had  been  set  apart  during  the 
reign  of  Edward  VI  for  the  use  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  the  last  day  on  which  the  House  sat 
there  was  25  September,  1834.  On  its  site  has  arisen 
the  fine  vestibule  named  St.  Stephen's  Hall,  the  walls 
of  which  exactly  correspond  with  those  of  the  old 
Chapel.  The  spot  which  the  Speaker's  Chair  occupied 
is  carefully  marked,  and  also  the  place  where  stood  the 
table  from  which  Cromwell  removed  the  mace,  and  on 
which  Pitt  and  Burke  and  Fox  laid  their  papers. 
Below  the  floor  the  beautiful  Crypt  Chapel  still 
remains  as  one  of  the  few  relics  of  the  old  Palace. 
Privileged  babies  are  baptized  at  its  font,  and  once 
in  an  age  a  Lord  Chancellor  is  married  there. 

When  the  last  fire-engine  had  trotted  home,  when 


A   WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S  LONDON      205 

King  William  and  Queen  Adelaide  had  driven  down 
in  two  closed  carriages  to  inspect  the  debris,  and 
when  the  Privy  Council  had  solemnly  reported  that 
somebody  had  done  something  improper,  the  question 
of  immediate  accommodation  for  Parliament  presented 
itself.  At  a  cost  of  ;£3o,ooo  the  Lords  were  sent  into 
the  Painted  Chamber,  the  Commons  into  the  damaged 
House  of  Lords.  The  results  were  different  :  the 
Lords  were  uncomfortable,  and  decided  that  Barry 
was  a  slow  architect ;  the  Commons  liked  their 
quarters  so  well  that  they  were  in  no  hurry  to  move 
into  Barry's  new  chamber  when  it  was  ready. 

Ninety-seven  architects  had  been  tempted  by  the 
premiums  and  the  opportunity.  It  was  understood 
that  a  splendid  building,  in  the  Elizabethan  or  Gothic 
styles,  would  be  sanctioned.  Barry's  plan.  No.  64, 
was  awarded  the  first  premium.  He  had  spent  the 
available  time  (six  months)  in  the  hardest  labour, 
never  allowing  himself  more  than  five  hours'  sleep, 
and  he  had  made  a  tour  of  the  town-halls  of  Belgium 
before  working  out  his  design.  His  son  tells  us  that 
his  first  plan  was  sketched  on  the  back  of  a  letter  in  a 
friend's  house,  and  that  this  was  the  germ  of  all  that 
followed.  The  plan  he  submitted  was  curtailed,  and 
altered  in  the  execution  beyond  belief,  yet  out  of  the 
welter  of  schemes  and  counter-schemes  there  emerged 
the  perpendicular  Gothic  conception  which  the  world 
applauds  to-day. 

The  low  site  ch^en  for  the  building  was  an 
obstacle  to  magnificent  effect,  all  the  more  so  because 
old  Westminster  Bridge  had  a  much  higher  pitch  and 
a  taller  parapet  than  its  successor.  A  proposal  was 
made  to  elevate  the  new  Palace  on  a  great  terrace, 
like  that  of  Somerset  House,  but  it  was  seen  that  this 
would   woefully    dwarf    Westminster    Hall    and    the 


2o6  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Abbey.  There  was  also  an  idea  of  removing  Parlia- 
ment to  the  Green  Park  or  to  Trafalgar  Square,  but 
the  associations  of  history  forbade.  In  a  recent  dis- 
cussion at  the  Architectural  Association  it  was 
mentioned  that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  favoured  the 
river-edge  site  on  the  characteristic  ground  that  the 
Houses  of  Parliament  ought  not  to  be  accessible  on 
all  sides  to  a  mob  1 

The  national  region  of  London,  as  it  may  be  called, 
is  but  "  irregularly  great,"  but  it  homes  itself  about  the 
Abbey  in  large  and  impressive  groupings  and  areas. 
Within  a  few  minutes  one  may  see,  besides  the  great 
Westminster  buildings,  the  long  line  of  Government 
offices,  the  Banqueting  Hall  of  the  Stuarts,  the  Horse 
Guards  and  its  Parade,  the  old  Admiralty,  the  Nelson 
Monument,  old  St.  James's,  the  Mall,  and  the  Palace. 
Parliament  Street  and  Whitehall  are  resonant  with 
great  names  and  happenings.  Milton  lodged  in 
Scotland  Yard  while  Latin  secretary  to  Cromwell, 
and  Andrew  Marvell  succeeded  to  his  office  and 
residence. 

Something  of  the  old  Cromwellian  air  of  Whitehall 
lingers  in  Whitehall  Court,  behind  the  Banqueting 
House  of  unhappy  memory.  Here  are  little  fore- 
court gardens  and  green  painted  window-boxes,  and 
pigeons  ambling  about  in  the  sunshine,  and  one 
hears  the  golden  notes  of  Big  Ben.  The  house  in 
which  Sir  Robert  Peel  died  looks  down  on  the 
quiet  precinct. 

Unless  custom  has  staled  the  experience  one  does 
not  stand  on  the  Horse  Guards'  Parade  unmoved. 
Though  it  may  be  empty  as  the  Sahara  or  flecked  with 
nothing  more  interesting  than  a  Cabinet  Minister  and 
a  water-cart  the  spirit  is  stirred.  The  bugles  of  empire 
seem  to  be  faintly  blowing  across  this  fine  level,  round 


A   WALK   THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      207 

which  the  buildings  of  bleached  stone  or  mellow  brick 
rise  with  significant  neatness  and  power.  Yonder  is 
the  dragon  bomb  which  Spain  gave  to  the  Prince 
Regent,  and  away  there  in  a  corner,  almost  lost  in  its 
own  sombreness  of  brick  and  ivy,  is  the  eighteenth- 
century  wall  which  makes  snug  the  garden  of  all 
that  messuage.  No.  10  Downing  Street. 

The  most  interesting  building  in  Whitehall  is 
beyond  question  the  old  Admiralty,  built  in  the  reign 
of  the  first  George  by  Ripley,  and  described  by 
Walpole  as  '^  a  most  ugly  edifice,  and  deservedly  veiled 
by  Mr.  Adams's  handsome  screen."  In  the  room  to 
the  left  of  the  entrance-door  lay  in  state  the  body  of 
Nelson.  The  Marconi  apparatus  on  the  roof  is 
perhaps  the  most  fascinating  object  in  London,  for 
through  that  delicate  web  of  wires  England  speaks  to 
her  war  captains  around  her  coasts  and  for  many 
hundreds  of  miles  to  sea.  These  Marconi  masts  have 
taken  the  place,  on  the  same  roof,  of  ordinary  tele- 
graph wires,  which  had  superseded  the  hand-worked 
semaphore  by  which  in  Nelson's  day  a  message  was 
sent  to  the  next  station  in  St.  George's  Fields,  and 
thence  from  point  to  point  until  from  the  cliffs  it  sped 
to  the  quarter-deck.  The  rapidity  with  which  messages 
could  be  sent  down  from  the  Admiralty  to  Portsmouth 
through  that  old  chain  of  semaphore  signals  was  remark- 
able, and  some  of  the  stories  of  quick  communication 
almost  pass  belief.  From  the  Admiralty  roof  a 
message  was  transmitted  through  Chelsea,  Putney, 
Kingston,  and  thence  by  Cooper's  Hill,  Chately  Hill, 
and  five  other  hills  to  Compton  Down,  Porstdown 
Hill,  and  Southsea  Beach,  until,  finally,  it  was 
received  on  a  tower  in  High  Street,  Portsmouth.  It 
is  said  that  a  message  could  be  thus  sent  from 
Whitehall  to  Portsmouth  in  less  than  a  minute. 


2o8  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

The  fellow  of  the  Nelson  Column  puzzles  thousands 
of  visitors  to  London,  and  probably  as  many  Lon- 
doners. Who  is  this  man,  with  the  lightning-conductor 
growing  out  of  his  head,  who  looks  down  on  the 
Horse  Guards'  Parade  and  on  the  Westminster  group 
of  public  buildings  ?  Whose  effigy  is  thus  raised  as 
high  as  the  national  hero's  ?  The  last  question  is 
partly  disposed  of  by  the  circumstance  that  this 
column  was  erected  many  years  before  Nelson's  ;  its 
scale  has  therefore  only  an  accidental  equality  with 
that  of  its  neighbour.  The  two  columns  can  be  seen 
in  picturesque  relation  to  each  other  from  the  west 
end  of  Carlton  House  Terrace. 

It  was  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  Duke  of 
York's  services  as  an  Army  administrator  that  the 
column  in  Carlton  House  Terrace  was  erected,  and 
not — as  was  irreverently  said — that  the  Duke  standing 
on  it  might  be  beyond  the  reach  of  his  creditors. 
For  bungling  the  Flanders  campaign  he  was  appointed 
Commander-in-Chief,  an  office  which  he  held,  with  one 
brief  suspension,  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  On  the 
whole  he  was  a  good  commander-in-chief,  and  it  can- 
not be  forgotten  that  it  was  under  his  rule  at  the  Horse 
Guards  that  England  vexed  Napoleon  in  Spain  and 
crushed  him  at  Waterloo.  Unfortunately  his  adminis- 
tration was  marred  by  scandal.  In  the  wary  obituary 
sketch  of  the  Duke  which  he  contributed  to  the 
"Gentleman's  Magazine,"  Sir  Walter  Scott  did  not 
spare  to  condemn  the  Mrs.  Clarke  episode.  It  was 
recognized,  however,  that  the  Duke  had  been  a  dupe. 
And  now  he  stands,  124  feet  above  censure  and  Carlton 
Terrace. 

Scott  tells  a  story  of  the  Duke  that  is  more  than 
biographically  interesting.  At  a  dinner-party  a  young 
ofhcer    entered    into    a   dispute    with    a    lieutenant- 


A  WALK   THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      209 

colonel  upon  the  point  to  which  military  obedi- 
ence ought  to  be  carried.  "  If  the  Commander-in- 
Chief,"  said  the  young  officer,  "should  command 
me  to  do  a  thing  which  I  knew  to  be  civilly  illegal,  I 
should  not  scruple  to  obey  him,  and  consider  myself 
as  relieved  from  all  responsibility  by  the  commands  of 
my  military  superior."  "  So  would  not  I,"  returned 
the  gallant  and  intelligent  lieutenant-colonel.  "  I 
should  rather  prefer  the  risk  of  being  shot  for  dis- 
obedience by  my  commanding  officer  than  hanged  for 
transgressing  the  laws  and  violating  the  liberties  of  the 
country."  The  Duke  had  been  listening,  and  he  now 
gave  judgment.  "  You  have  answered  like  yourself," 
he  said,  ''  and  the  officer  would  deserve  both  to  be  shot 
and  hanged  that  should  not  act  otherwise.  I  trust  all 
British  officers  would  be  as  unwilling  to  execute  an 
illegal  command  as  I  trust  the  Commander-in-Chief 
would  be  incapable  of  issuing  one." 

Outside  the  Army  the  Duke  was  a  burly  royalty 
about  town,  and,  generally  speaking,  a  good-humoured 
voluptuary.  He  haunted  the  Watier  Club,  founded  by 
the  Regent,  where  the  dinners  were  exquisite  and  the 
gambling  ruinous.  And  he  uttered  at  Newmarket  the 
words,  "  a  shocking  bad  hat,"  which  for  some  reason 
are  immortal.  His  regular  companions  were  men  like 
Alvanley,  Beau  Brummell,  Charles  Greville  (who 
managed  his  racing  stud),  and  Sir  Thomas  Stepney,  to 
name  only  a  few  in  the  circle  which  he  drew  round  him 
at  the  Stable-yard  at  St.  James's  Palace.  In  his  later 
years  the  Duke  of  York  was  not  taken  seriously  as  Heir- 
Apparent,  for  his  life  was  rendered  "  bad  "  by  a  brave 
combination  of  punctuality  at  the  Horse  Guards  and 
lateness  at  the  table.  Yet  he  was  hopefully  planning 
and  building  York  House  (now  Stafford  House,  with 
a  new  destiny  before  it),  when  dropsy  laid  him  on 
p 


2IO  A    LONDONER'S   LONDON 

his  death-bed.  From  his  room  in  Rutland  House,  in 
Arlington  Street,  which  had  been  lent  to  him,  he  could 
hear  the  workmen's  hammers.  His  death  was  sin- 
cerely mourned,  and  the  burial  at  Windsor  was 
carried  out  at  night,  with  all  pomp.  At  the  graveside 
many  distinguished  people  took  severe  colds,  a  conse- 
quence which  Lord  Eldon  escaped  by  standing  (with 
acute  reluctance)  inside  his  hat. 

In  1831  the  Army  projected  a  monument  to  their 
lost  leader.  Carlton  House  had  just  been  demolished, 
and  Carlton  House  Terrace  had  been  built  in  its  two 
ranges.  The  space  between  these  was  to  have  been 
filled  by  a  fountain  formed  of  the  eight  columns  of  the 
portico  of  Carlton  House.  Before  this  plan  was 
executed  the  idea  of  a  grand  entrance  into  St.  James's 
Park  from  Pall  Mall  was  mooted  and  preferred.  The 
Carlton  House  columns  went  to  support  the  portico 
of  the  National  Gallery,  and  the  new  approach  to  the 
Park  was  selected  as  the  site  of  the  Duke's  monument. 

It  was  once  intended  that  Cleopatra's  Needle  should 
be  erected  at  the  foot  of  Waterloo  Place  on  the 
spot  where  the  Crimea  monument  stands.  It  may 
be  remembered  that  when  those  weighty  critics  of 
"  Life  in  London,"  the  Hon.  Tom  Dashall  and  Squire 
Tallo-ho,  were  admiring  the  features  of  Waterloo 
Place,  then  known  as  Regent's  Place,  the  aesthetic 
squire  remarked  that  there  was  a  vacuum  on  this  spot. 
His  friend  agreed,  but  informed  him  that  the  column 
known  as  Cleopatra's  Needle  was  *' destined  to  raise 
its  lofty  summit  in  Regent's  Place."  This  idea 
remained  in  the  air  until  the  fifties,  the  Needle  on 
its  part  remaining  in  the  sands  of  Alexandria,  where 
Thackeray  saw  it  *'  desecrated  by  all  sorts  of  abomi- 
nations." In  the  interval,  the  disappointed  shareholders 
of    Waterloo    Bridge    asked    in    vain     to    have    the 


A   WALK   THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      211 

Needle   placed  on   the  central  arch   of  the  bridge  as 
an  attraction  to  passengers. 

The  story  of  Carlton  House  is  the  story  of  a  whole 
period,  and  it  is  in  many  books.  But  one  rather 
unfamiliar  record  comes  to  mind.  Here  the  American 
Minister  of  the  Waterloo  period,  Mr.  Rush,  saw  a  very 
remarkable  crowd  just  after  the  battle — a  number  of 
wounded  British  officers  of  high  distinction  basking  in 
the  smiles  of  the  Regent.  He  describes  the  unusual 
scene  as  follows  : — 

^'  There  were  from  forty  to  fifty  generals  :  perhaps  as 
many  admirals,  with  throngs  of  officers  of  rank  inferior. 
I  remarked  upon  the  number  of  wounded.  Who  is 
that,  I  asked,  pallid  but  with  a  countenance  so  ani- 
mated ?  *  That's  General  Walker,'  I  was  told,  ^  he  was 
pierced  with  bayonets,  leading  on  the  assault  at 
Badajos.'  And  he,  close  by,  tall  but  limping  ?  '  Colonel 
Ponsonby  ;  he  was  left  for  dead  at  Waterloo  ;  the 
cavalry  it  was  thought  had  trampled  upon  him.'  Then 
came  one  of  like  port,  but  deprived  of  a  leg,  slowly 
moving  ;  and  the  whisper  went,  '  That's  Lord  Anglesea.' 
A  fourth  had  been  wounded  at  Seringapatam  ;  a  fifth  at 
Talavera ;  some  had  sufifered  in  Egypt  ;  some  in 
America.  There  were  those  who  had  received  scars  on 
the  deck  with  Nelson  ;  others  who  had  carried  them 
from  the  days  of  Howe.  One,  yes,  one  had  fought  at 
Saratoga.  It  was  so  that  my  inquiries  were  answered. 
Each  '  did  his  duty,'  this  was  the  favourite  praise 
bestowed.  The  great  number  of  wounded  was 
accounted  for  by  recollecting,  that  little  more  than 
two  years  had  elapsed  since  the  armies  and  fleets  of 
Britain  had  been  liberated  from  wars  of  extraordinary 
fierceness  and  duration  in  all  parts  of  the  globe.  For, 
so  it  is,  other  nations  chiefly  fight  on  or  near  their  own 
territory ;  the  English  everywhere." 


2ia  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

The  palace  was  taken  down  in  1826,  and  next  year 
the  rooks  which  had  built  in  its  grounds  sought 
another  nesting-place. 

The  only  great  and  deliberate  scheme  for  building  a 
royal  palace  in  London  is  that  of  which  Inigo  Jones's 
Banqueting  Hall  is  the  monument  and  the  fragment. 
The  story  of  Buckingham  Palace  is  but  serio-comic. 
It  is  a  curious  coincidence  that  George  V's  London 
home  stands  upon  ground  that  is  associated  with  a 
"  Wake  up,  England  I "  gospel  preached  (somewhat 
fantastically)  by  James  L  In  1609  James  addressed  a 
circular  to  the  Sheriffs,  Deputy-Lieutenants,  and  others, 
in  which  he  expressed  his  royal  anxiety  "  to  wean  his 
people  from  idleness  and  the  enormities  thereof."  He 
had  an  idea  for  making  his  subjects  busy  and  pros- 
perous, and  a  very  curious  idea  it  was  :  to  plant 
England  with  mulberry-trees  and  establish  a  native 
silk  industry.  Ten  thousand  mulberry-saplings  were 
to  be  sent  to  each  county,  and  the  Sheriffs  and 
Deputy-Lieutenants  were  to  see  to  the  rest.  James 
himself  took  four  acres  from  St.  James's  Park,  walled 
them  in,  and  planted  with  mulberry-trees  the  ground 
in  which  Buckingham  Palace  stands.  Mulberry- 
planting  became  the  fashion.  It  is  said  that  one  of 
those  who  fell  in  with  it  was  William  Shakespeare,  who 
planted  a  mulberry-tree  in  his  garden  at  Stratford-on- 
Avon,  where  it  flourished  until  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  when  it  was  cut  down  by  Parson 
Gastrin,  to  his  everlasting  local  shame.  The  home  silk 
industry  inaugurated  by  James  I  did  not  flourish.  In 
our  time,  nevertheless,  on  the  spot  where  His 
Majesty's  silkworms  perished,  a  Queen  has  in  our  day 
ordered  her  Coronation  robes  to  be  made  of  home- 
spun silk. 

The    mulberry-garden    became     a    popular   resort, 


A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      213 

and  the  Restoration  plays  teem  with  references  to  its 
paths  and  pleasures — both  shady.  On  10  May,  1654, 
Evelyn  wrote  in  his  diary  :  "My  Lady  Gerard  treated 
us  at  Mulberry  Garden,  now  the  only  place  of  refresh- 
ment for  persons  of  the  best  quality  to  be  exceedingly 
cheated  at."  Evelyn  explains  that  since  Cromwell 
had  shut  up  the  Spring  Garden,  the  pleasure-seekers 
had  moved  to  the  other  end  of  the  Mall.  Rather 
more  than  fifty  years  later,  when  old  Buckingham 
House  was  built  on  the  spot.  Dr.  King  wrote  in  his 
"  Art  of  Cookery "  of  this  "  princely  palace "  that 
had  displaced  the  forlorn  mulberries.  Buckingham 
House  was  built  for  John  Sheffield,  Marquis  of 
Normandy  and  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire.  It  was 
a  handsome  house,  and  the  Duke  was  proud  of  his 
view  of  London  seen  from  his  flat,  statue-crowned 
roof,  and  of  his  retired  garden  with  its  '^  wilderness 
full  of  blackbirds  and  nightingales."  There  were 
*'  waterworks  "  and  Latin  mottoes,  and  there  was  the 
gleam  of  the  London  sunshine  on  the  "canal  in  the 
Park." 

It  fell  out  that  a  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales 
(afterwards  George  II  and  Queen  Caroline)  wanted 
a  London  house,  and  envied  Naboth  his  vineyard. 
Naboth  was  dead,  but  his  widow,  the  Duchess,  was 
willing  to  treat.  Her  notions  were  severely  business- 
like, and  the  exact  terms  of  her  offer,  which  have  come 
down  to  us,  indicate  that  her  Grace  of  Buckingham- 
shire had  the  makings  of  an  estate-agent.  She  wrote  : 
"If  Their  Royal  Highnesses  will  have  everything  stand 
as  it  does,  furniture  and  pictures,  I  will  have  ;^3,ooo 
per  annum  ;  both  run  hazard  of  being  spoiled,  and  the 
last,  to  be  sure,  will  all  to  be  new  bought  when  my 
son  is  of  age.  The  quantity  the  rooms  take  cannot 
be  well  furnished  under  ;^io,ooo  ;  but  if  Their  High- 


ai4  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

nesses  will  permit  the  pictures  all  to  be  removed,  and 
buy  the  furniture  as  it  will  be  valued  by  different 
people,  the  house  shall  go  at  ;^20oo.  ...  If  the 
Prince  or  Princess  prefer  much  the  buying  outright, 
it  will  not  be  parted  with  under  ;^6o,ooo,  as  it  now 
stands,  and  all  His  Majesty's  revenue  cannot  purchase 
a  place  so  fit  for  them,  nor  for  a  less  sum." 

The  Hanoverians  were  poor,  and  business  did  not 
result.  The  Duchess  continued  to  live  in  her  paradise 
at  the  head  of  the  Mall,  swelling  with  pride  to  remem- 
ber that  she  was  the  illegitimate  daughter  of  James  II 
(a  doubtful  claim),  and  therefore  the  granddaughter 
of  Charles  I,  whose  martyrdom  she  celebrated  every 
year  in  her  great  drawing-room,  seated  in  a  chair  of 
state,  and  "  surrounded  by  her  women,  all  in  black 
and  dismal-looking  as  herself."  She  had  a  great 
mind  to  be  buried  at  St.  Germains,  with  her  father, 
but  thought  better  of  it,  and  decided  to  lie  with  her 
husband  in  Westminster  Abbey.  She  came  as  near  to 
attending  her  own  funeral  as  mortal  can,  for  she 
planned  its  ceremonial,  and  insisted  on  having  the 
canopy  brought  to  her  bedside,  "even  though  all 
the  tassels  are  not  finished." 

The  mansion  which  George  II  had  refused  at 
;^6o,ooo  was  picked  up  by  George  III  in  1762  for 
less  than  half  that  sum,  and  was  settled  on  Queen 
Charlotte  in  place  of  old  Somerset  House,  which 
being  ruinous  was  about  to  disappear  in  favour  of 
the  great  Civil  Service  palace  we  now  know.  And 
thus  it  was  that  Royalty  came  to  Buckingham 
House. 

In  her  Journal,  under  the  year  1792,  Fanny  Burney 
gives  a  brief  description  of  Buckingham  House  when 
"Farmer  George"  and  his  family  were  thoroughly 
settled  there.     Alighting    at  the  porter's  lodge,   she 


A   WALK   THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      215 

was  charmed  to  be  in  time  to  see  the  King,  with  his 
three  sons,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  Duke  of  York,  and 
Duke  of  Clarence,  standing  there  after  just  alighting 
from  their  horses,  when  the  people  pressed  against 
the  iron  railings.  "  It  was  a  pleasant  and  goodly 
sight,  and  I  rejoiced  in  such  a  detention."  She  met 
the  Princess  Elizabeth  in  a  corridor,  and  was  presently 
paying  her  respects  to  the  Queen,  who  was  in  her 
State  drawing-room,  her  head  just  attired  for  the 
assembly,  '^  but  her  Court  dress,  as  usual,  remaining  to 
be  put  on  at  St.  James's." 

Buckingham  Palace,  as  we  see  it,  was  built  from 
the  designs  of  the  all-building  Nash,  and  large  alter- 
ations were  made  for  Queen  Victoria  at  her  Accession. 
The  insufficiently  handsome  east  front,  at  last  to  be 
renewed,  was  then  built  to  close  in  the  quadrangle. 
Many  Londoners  have  forgotten  that  the  Marble  Arch, 
copied  by  Nash,  with  modifications,  from  the  Arch  of 
Constantine  at  Rome,  first  stood  in  front  of  the 
chief  entrance  to  Buckingham  Palace.  It  is  on 
record  that  the  archway,  as  first  designed,  was  found  to 
be  too  small  to  admit  the  royal  coach  ;  but  the  mis- 
take was  remedied  in  time.  The  Marble  Arch  was 
to  have  been  surmounted  by  a  colossal  bronze  group 
emblematic  of  Victory,  but  this  was  abandoned  in 
favour  of  an  equestrian  statue  of  George  IV.  The 
statue  was  executed  by  Chantrey  at  a  cost  of  9000 
guineas  ;  but  it  never  reached  the  Marble  Arch,  and 
is  now  in  Trafalgar  Square. 

The  alterations  at  Hyde  Park  Corner  within  living 
memory  have  affected  the  triumphal  arch  at  the  head 
of  Constitution  Hill.  Formerly  consecrated  to  War 
and  Wellington,  it  is  now  decorated  by  a  symbol  of 
Peace.  This  arch  first  stood  opposite  the  Hyde 
Park  entrance.      In   1846  it  was  surmounted  by   the 


2i6  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

most  conspicuous  and  ugly  equestrian  statute  ever 
seen  in  London,  that  of  the  Duke.  London  had 
warning  of  the  aesthetic  error  it  was  about  to  commit, 
for  in  1838  trial  was  made  of  the  statue  with  a 
wooden  figure  of  it,  and  of  this  erection  it  was 
remarked,  *'  Whoever  has  stuck  up  this  scenic  effigy 
deserves  thanks  :  it  demonstrates  two  things — that 
the  position  is  a  good  one,  and  that  a  bad  statue 
placed  there  would  be  an  intolerable  eyesore."  Never- 
theless the  bronze  statue  by  Wyatt  was  erected,  and, 
with  all  its  faults,  was  loved.  Many  people  bitterly 
deplored  its  removal  to  Aldershot.  A  few  years  ago 
Mr.  William  Royle  told  the  readers  of  **  Notes  and 
Queries"  that  he  was  standing  on  the  top  of  the 
Triumphal  Arch  at  Hyde  Park  Corner  when  the 
monument  was  lowered  from  it  to  be  removed  to 
Aldershot.  The  Triumphal  Arch  then  stood  imme- 
diately opposite  Decimus  Burton's  entrance  screen  to 
Hyde  Park.  The  architectural  effect  produced  when 
the  two  great  portals  stood  opposite  each  other  may 
be  seen  in  a  picture  in  the  "  Illustrated  London  News  " 
of  30  June,  i860,  in  which  a  regiment  of  Volunteers 
is  marching  through  both  gateways. 

Few  Londoners,  perhaps,  remembered  that  the  re- 
moval of  this  statue  was  mooted  even  before  its  erec- 
tion was  completed.  This  was  a  sore  point  with  the 
Duke,  who,  in  1846,  in  his  room  at  Apsley  House,  was 
looking  alternately  on  the  scaffolding  of  his  rising 
effigy  and  the  newspaper  protests  against  its  situation. 
Wyatt's  colossal  work  had  just  been  hoisted  after  the 
interior  of  the  horse  had  been  used  as  a  dining-room 
by  a  dozen  of  the  sculptor's  congratulatory  friends, 
John  Wilson  Croker  said,  *'As  soon  as  it  was  there, 
everybody  but  the  great  Duke  seems  to  have  wished 
it  down   again."     His  "everybody"   included  Queen 


A  WALK  THROUGH   EVERYMAN'S   LONDON      217 

Victoria  and  Prince  Albert.  The  agitation  was  galling 
to  the  Duke,  whose  feelings  can  be  gauged  from  these 
sentences  in  a  letter  to  Croker  :  ^*  They  must  be  idiots 
to  suppose  that  is  possible  that  a  man  who  is  working 
day  and  night  without  any  object  in  view,  excepting 
public  benefit,  will  not  be  sensible  of  a  disgrace  in- 
flicted upon  him  by  the  Sovereign  and  Government 
whom  he  is  serving.  The  ridicule  will  be  felt,  if 
nothing  else  is."  In  the  end  the  Duke's  known 
wishes  were  respected,  and  the  statue  remained  to  be 
a  mark  for  jesters  and  caricaturists  down  to  1884. 
Then  the  opportunity  occurred,  and  was  taken,  to  get 
rid  of  an  "  eyesore."  Eyesore  or  not,  the  statue  had 
filled  the  Londoner's  eye,  and  people  had  liked  to  show 
their  country  cousins  that  the  setting  sun  cast  the 
shadow  of  the  effigy  on  Apsley  House. 

The  most  famous  private  mansion  in  London  is  not 
quite  what  it  seems.  The  stone  of  Apsley  House  en- 
cases the  brick  of  the  mansion  which  Lord  Chancellor 
Bathurst  erected  in  1784,  after  some  difficult  negotia- 
tions with  an  old  woman  who  defended  her  interest 
in  an  apple-stall  erected  on  this  spot.  The  old  brick 
front  is  recalled  by  Thackeray  in  ^^  Vanity  Fair ''  : 
^*  And  the  carriage  drove  on,  taking  the  road  down 
Piccadilly,  where  Apsley  House  and  St.  George's 
Hospital  wore  red  jackets  still ;  where  there  were 
oil-lamps ;  where  Achilles  was  not  born,  nor  the 
Pimlico  arch  raised."  Where,  also,  the  toll-gate  still 
obstructed  the  entry  into  London. 


CHAPTER   IX 
THE   STREET   OF  THE   READY  WRITERS 

The  Lions  of  Fleet  Street— Button's— The  Shops  of  Yesterday— The 
Hamiltonian  System — The  First  Pillar-box — The  Tomb  of  Richardson 
— "  The  Fruits  of  Experience  " — The  Age  of  the  Free  and  Easy — The 
Bankrupt  Silversmith — A  Candle-snuffing  Expert — A  Great  Day  in 
Fleet  Street — The  Heme  Hill  Philosopher — Peele's  Coffee-house  and 
a  Tragedy — "  Sat  cito,  si  sat  bene" — Hardham's  Snuif — The  Doctor  in 
Gough  Square — A  Guinea  a  Thousand  Words — "Where's  the  Book  ?  " 
— "  Rasselas  "—The  "  Cheshire  Cheese  "  Tradition— Wine  and  Wit  - 
"The  Anak  of  Publishers "—" Childe  Harold"— An  Angry  Poet- 
Byron's  London — The  Literary  Life. 

YEARS  ago  I  remarked  to  Hewson,  "What  a 
wonderful  book  could  be  written  about  Fleet 
Street  1"     We  had  just  left  Groom's. 

*  Yes,  if  you  will  leave  out  Dr.  Johnson." 

"  The  Hamlet  of  Fleet  Street  ? " 

"  No,  no,  the  Polonius.  He  should  be  kept  behind 
the  arras.  A  book  on  Fleet  Street  minus  the  Doctor, 
and  Nell  Gwynn,  and  Will  Waterproof,  and  Mrs. 
Salmon's  Waxworks,  and  Nando's,  and  Dick's  might 
be  worth  reading." 

"But  what  is  left?" 

"  Ah,  my  young  friend,  stand  still.  Here  1  This  is 
Clifford's  Passage.  Forty  years  ago  this  wall  was  the 
window  of  Button's  cook-shop.  It  curved  round  the 
corner  with  lots  of   window-panes.      I   used  to  gaze 

8I8 


THE  STREET   OF  THE   READY  WRITERS     219 

in  and  see  the  barristers  gulping  soup  and  ices.  I 
remember  the  warm  waft  from  the  door,  Uke  my 
grandmother's  breath.  And  they  write  books  about 
*  Ye  Marigold '  and  the  great  Lexicographer,  confound 
him!" 

"You  have  the  advantage  of  me.  You  remember 
another  Fleet  Street  ?  " 

"Another  !  You  can  have  no  idea  how  the  street 
has  changed.  To-day  it  is  all  for  men  in  a  hurry. 
The  picture  and  print-shops,  the  silversmiths',  the 
ironmongers ',  are  gone.  I  remember  the  time  when 
kitchen  shopping  was  done  in  Fleet  Street.  And  my 
mother  bought  many  a  lace  and  veil  at  Speare's,  next 
to  Gosling  &  Sharp's  Bank — Barclay's  now.  There 
is  not  a  grocer  or  baker  left  in  Fleet  Street,  but 
in  the  fifties  you  could  fill  your  larder.  Perhaps  there 
was  no  butcher,  but  there  was  little  Davis,  a  game  and 
poultry  man  ;  his  shop  was  below  the  ^  Cheshire  Cheese,' 
There  were  cosy  confectioners',  and  a  fishmonger  named 
Willows,  I  think,  close  to  Bride  Lane.  Waithman's 
shawl  warehouse — it  was  the  Shawl  Age — was  there 
too,  though  Waithman  was  dead  and  obelisked.  I  am 
talking  of  the  forties,  when  the  newspaper  offices  were 
the  seasoning,  not  the  dish.  I  remember  that  cricket- 
bats  and  fishing-rods  and  bows  and  arrows  were  sold 
in  a  pretty  big  shop  on  the  spot  where  the  ^  Daily 
Telegraph '  office  stands.  There  was  then  a  milliner's 
at  the  corner  of  Bouverie  Street,  and  at  the  ^  Daily 
Chronicle'  office  corner  Crutchley  sold  his  maps.  I 
don't  recommend  Crutchley's  maps  of  London  now." 

"Any  book-shops  ?" 

"A  few — Noble's,  for  one  ;  and  there  was  another 
I  like  to  remember.  It  gave  me  one  of  those  fillips 
to  learning  that  are  so  good,  though  they  come  to 
nothing.     It  was  Souter's,  two  or  three  doors  from 


220  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

Shoe  Lane.  Souter's  existed  mainly  to  deal  in  the 
Hamiltonian  system  of  learning  languages.  You 
never  heard  of  that  dodge  ? " 

"  I  think  not." 

"Well,  the  idea  was  a  little  too  simple.  Hamilton, 
who,  I  believe,  had  a  curious  career,  printed  Greek, 
Latin,  French,  and  German  classics  with  interlinear 
translations.  You  read  the  French  line  and  found 
beneath  it,  in  smaller  type,  the  literal  English  equi- 
valent. And  so  you  went  on  ;  no  grammar  to  vex 
you,  no  dictionary  needed,  and  no  teacher.  You 
began  to  read  Cicero  or  Racine  as  if  to  the  manner 
born.  I  remember  the  autumn  evening  when  the 
idea  glued  me  to  Souter's  window.  I  forget  how  I 
raised  the  shillings,  but  soon  afterwards  I  bought 
three  little  books — ^^sop's  Fables'  in  Latin,  some 
French  story  or  other,  and  a  German  Gospel  of  St. 
John — and  carried  them  home  to  Brixton.  That  night 
I  took  all  knowledge  for  my  province.  I  remember 
that  my  mother  reproved  my  father  for  laughing  at 
me.  In  a  week  I  was  suffering  from  polyglot  dyspepsia, 
and  I  am  afraid  I  got  nothing  else  from  the  Hamilton 
system." 

'*Goon." 

**  Well,  you  must  imagine  Fleet  Street  without  plate- 
glass.  When  I  was  a  boy  there  was  hardly  a  sheet, 
and  if  the  rows  of  small-pane  windows  and  old  bow- 
windows  could  be  seen  to-day  we  should  treasure 
them  like  pictures  in  the  National  Gallery.  I  notice 
that  the  new  architects  are  bringing  them  back.  I 
think  I  was  a  lad  of  fifteen  when  a  great  talk  was  made 
about  a  shop-window  in  Ludgate  Hill.  It  was  raised 
to  include  the  first  floor  in  a  manner  that  was  unheard 
of  then,  but  common  now,  and  ugly  always.  Another 
hing  I  remember  is  the  first  London  pillar-box.     It 


THE   STREET   OF  THE   READY  WRITERS     221 

was  put  up  at  Ludgate  Circus,  outside  Cook's,  in  1855. 
It  was  a  squat  affair  with  a  kind  of  teapot  knob  on  the 
top  of  it.  Only  letters  could  be  posted.  A  notice 
told  you  that  newspapers  posted  there  would  not  be 
forwarded." 

Thus  my  old  friend  would  talk,  recovering  his 
youth  from  sites  and  objects.  He  did  not  utter  all 
his  thoughts,  but  he  was  oddly  scornful  of  book  topo- 
graphy, hackneyed  associations,  and  the  pilgrimage 
fever.  I  rose  in  his  esteem  when  I  told  him  that  in 
twelve  years  of  London  life  I  had  not  been  to  the 
Tower.  And  he  was  mightily  amused  one  night  when 
I  told  him  (we  were  passing  St.  Bride's  Church)  how 
Madame  de  Stael  blundered  in  her  quest  of  the  grave 
of  Samuel  Richardson.  It  is  one  of  James  Smith's 
stories  and  crops  up  in  his  entertaining  hotch-potch, 
"  Grimm's  Ghost."  Madame  de  Stael,  according  to  the 
veracious  Smith,  came  to  London  in  a  high  fever  to 
prostrate  herself  on  the  tomb  of  Richardson.  It  was 
to  be  her  first  act  in  London.  She  had  hardly 
deposited  her  trunks  and  bandboxes  at  the  Golden 
Cross  Hotel  when  she  asked  the  waiter  in  her  over- 
whelming way  if  he  could  direct  her  to  the  tomb  of 
Richardson.  It  was  a  drizzling  November  afternoon. 
The  old  waiter  was  nonplussed  by  the  lady's  demand, 
but  it  flashed  on  him  that  it  must  be  Richardson,  the 
tavern-keeper  in  Covent  Garden.  Yet  no,  the  man 
could  hardly  be  dead  since  he  had  sold  him  the 
sixteenth  part  of  a  lottery-ticket  in  the  week  before. 
It  must  be  Richardson,  of  Richardson  &  Goodmell, 
the  big  lottery  agents  in  Cornhill,  who  had  drawn  the 
great  blank. 

Away  in  a  hackney-coach  went  the  great  lady  to 
Cornhill,  and  pushed  into  the  office,  where  a  clerk  was 
spreading    eighths    and    sixteenths    of    lottery-tickets 


222  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

before  a  couple  of  servant-girls.  Seeing  a  managerial 
person,  she  asked  imperiously  to  be  directed  to  the 
tomb  of  Richardson. 

"The  tomb  of  Richardson,  madam?  Bless  me! 
he's  just  off  to  Clapham  Rise  in  Butler's  coach. 
What  Richardson  do  you  mean  ? " 

"The  divhiB  Richardson." 

"  Divine  I  Oh,  he's  a  divine  ?  Well,  I  don't  know  ; 
you  had  better  ask  the  bookseller  over  the  way." 

Here,  on  explaining  that  she  sought  the  grave  of 
the  author  of  "Clarissa,"  she  was  directed  to  St. 
Bride's  Church  in  Fleet  Street.  Back  through  Cheap- 
side  and  Ludgate  Hill  her  coach  drove  like  a  fire- 
engine  to  Fleet  Street,  where  she  called  the  sexton 
from  his  glass  of  toddy.  He  took  his  lantern  into  the 
nave,  where  he  rolled  up  certain  matting  on  the  floor 
and  at  last  disclosed,  underneath  it,  a  slab  nearly  as 
large  as  a  billiard-table.  Down  went  madam  on  her 
knees,  gurgling  Je  t'adore  in  the  dust  that  almost  hid 
from  her  eyes  the  tomb  of  Richardson. 

I  am  sure,  from  his  never  quoting  it,  that  my  old 
friend  had  not  read  a  book  about  Fleet  Street  which 
actually  did  leave  out  Dr.  Johnson — all  but  his  name. 
Doubtless  many  a  book-hunter  has  passed  it  over, 
seeing  in  its  title,  "The  Fruits  of  Experience,"  a 
suggestion  of  sermons  or  early  Victorian  piety.  Its 
only  begetter,  Mr.  Joseph  Brasbridge,  was  a  silver- 
smith at  No.  98  Fleet  Street,  two  or  three  doors  east 
of  St.  Bride's  Avenue.  He  wrote  his  singular  book  in 
the  cottage  at  Heme  Hill,  to  which  he  retired  after  a 
business  career  that  was  marred  by  an  early  bankruptcy, 
brought  about  by  his  festive  and  social  weaknesses. 

As  a  picture  of  shopkeeping  life  in  the  early  years 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  of  the  social  recreations 
of    City   tradesmen,    Brasbridge's   book    has   singular 


THE  STREET   OF  THE   READY    WRITERS     223 

value,  though  I  will  not  say,  with  the  *' Gentleman's 
Magazine"  of  1824,  that  it  is  better  calculated  to  benefit 
our  species  than  all  the  romances  of  Scott.  It  is 
embellished  with  portraits  of  its  author  and  of  his 
friend  and  generous  helper,  Mr.  John  Pridden,  the 
Fleet  Street  bookseller.  Dr.  Johnson  had  still  eight 
years  to  live  in  Bolt  Court  when  young  Mr.  Brasbridge 
lost  his  first  wife.  After  this  calamity  he  turned  to 
dissipation,  acting  on  his  friend  Charles  Bannister's 
reply  to  a  person,  who  said,  "  You  will  ruin  your  con- 
stitution by  sitting  up  at  nights."  "Oh,"  said  the 
actor,  '*  you  do  not  know  the  nature  of  my  constitu- 
tion ;  I  sit  up  at  night  to  watch  it  and  keep  it  in  repair 
whilst  you  are  sleeping  carelessly  in  bed."  It  was  the 
age  of  the  "free  and  easy,"  the  prize-ring,  and  the 
dog-cart.  Brasbridge  confesses  :  "  I  divided  my  time 
between  the  tavern  club,  the  card-party,  the  hunt,  the 
fight,  and  left  my  shop  to  be  looked  after  by  others 
whilst  I  decided  on  the  respective  merits  of  Humphries 
and  Mendoza,  Johnson  and  Big  Ben." 

At  the  Highflyer  Club,  held  at  the  Turf  Coffee- 
house, the  young  silversmith  met  such  choice  spirits 
as  the  actor  Whitfield,  "a  kind  and  social  soul"  ;  Mr. 
Colburn  of  the  Treasury,  "  whose  every  look  inspired 
cheerfulness  and  good  humour  "  ;  Bob  Tetherington, 
"  as  merry  a  fellow  as  ever  sat  in  a  chair "  ;  and  Mr. 
Owen,  the  confectioner,  "  a  gentleman  of  considerable 
accomplishment  and  talent." 

Nothing  better  illustrates  the  changes  which  rail- 
ways and  suburbs  have  wrought  on  Fleet  Street  than 
the  number  of  snug  gatherings  which  Joseph  the 
silversmith  found  near  his  door.  Between  Cheapside 
and  the  Strand  he  had  need  to  walk  only  a  few 
yards  from  one  circle  of  vastly  agreeable  citizens  to 
another.       At    the     Crown    and     Rolls     Tavern    in 


2  24  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Chancery  Lane,  where  card-parties  were  the  order 
of  the  evening,  he  was  pleased  to  hob-and-nob  with 
Mr.  Richard  Ramsbottom,  the  eminent  brewer  and 
distiller,  who  "  had  more  of  the  suaviter  in  modo 
than  any  man  I  have  met  with."  This  statement 
seems  to  beggar  praise  rather  early  in  the  book,  but 
to  turn  over  Brasbridge's  pages  is  to  realize  that 
language  could  not  cope  with  all  the  varieties  of 
Fleet  Street  affability. 

In  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  our  silversmith  was 
richly  at  home  at  the  "Free  and  Easy  under  the 
Rose,"  held  at  the  *^  Queen's  Arms."  This  had  been 
one  of  Johnson's  haunts,  but  now — relieved  of  that 
awful  presence — it  was  the  nightly  haven  of  Mr. 
Hawkins,  the  highly  respectable  spatterdash-maker 
of  Chancery  Lane ;  Mr.  Draper,  the  bookseller ; 
Mr.  Clutterbuck,  the  amiable  mercer  ;  and  also  of 
Mr.  Darwin,  churchwarden  of  St.  Mildred's,  and  Mr. 
Figgins,  the  wax-chandler,  of  Poultry,  who  were  so 
inseparable  that  Mr.  Brasbridge,  in  an  abandon  of 
wit,  nicknamed  them  "  Liver  and  Gizzard,"  by  which 
names  they  were  most  cheerfully  known  in  the  club- 
room  ever  after. 

But  the  junto  of  juntos  was  that  which  met  at  the 
Globe  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street.  It  stood  on  the  ground 
now  overshadowed  by  the  offices  of  the  "  Daily 
Telegraph."  There,  under  the  chandeliers  of  the 
cotfee-room,  or  in  a  snug  box  in  the  bar,  sat  the 
silversmith  who  made  spoons  for  Archbishop  Moore 
and  forks  for  His  Grace  of  Argyll. 

"  I  often  spent  my  evenings,"  he  tells  us,  "  at  the 
Globe  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street.  Mr.  P.  the  surgeon 
was  regular  in  his  attendance  there,  and  as  he  lived 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  water,  and  Blackfriars 
Bridge  was  not  then  erected,  he  continually  had   to 


THE   STREET  OF  THE   READY  WRITERS     225 

take  a  boat,  very  late  at  night,  at  the  certain  expense 
of  three  or  four  shillings,  and  the  risk  of  his  life 
into  the  bargain.  When  the  bridge  was  built,  how- 
ever, he  grumbled  at  having  to  pay  a  penny  for 
crossing  it,  though  he  saved  both  his  silver  and  his 
person  by  the  exchange  of  the  boat  for  the  bridge. 
Among  the  company  at  the  'Globe'  was  Archibald 
Hamilton,  the  printer,  with  a  mind  fit  for  a  Lord 
Chancellor  ;  also  Mr.  Thomas  Carnan,  the  bookseller, 
who  brought  an  action  against  the  Stationers'  Com- 
pany for  the  privilege  of  printing  almanacs  ; 
Dunstall,  the  comedian,  famous  for  his  song  in 
*  Love  in  a  Village,'  and  as  delightful  a  companion 
in  a  private  room  as  he  was  amusing  on  the  stage. 
Also  the  veteran  Macklin,  who,  when  the  company 
were  disputing  on  the  mode  of  spelling  the  name 
Shakespeare,  was  referred  to  by  Billy  Upton,  a  good- 
tempered  fellow,  with  a  remarkably  gruff  voice,  the 
loudest  tones  of  which  he  put  forth  as  he  observed, 
'There  is  a  gentleman  present  who  can  set  us  to 
rights  ! '  then,  turning  to  Macklin,  he  said,  '  Pray, 
sir,  is  it  Shakespeare  or  Shaksper  ? '  '  Sir,'  said  Macklin, 
'  I  never  give  any  reply  to  a  thunderbolt.'  Another 
of  the  frequenters  of  the  Globe  Tavern  was  Akerman, 
the  keeper  of  Newgate,  a  humane  and  social  man, 
and  one  of  those  careful  personages  who  always 
thought  it  most  prudent  not  to  venture  home  till 
daylight.  Mr.  William  Woodfall,  the  reporter  of  the 
parliamentary  debates,  was  also  frequently  with  us." 
It  is  not,  perhaps,  surprising  that  of  the  three 
hundred  pages  of  the  "  Fruits  of  Experience  "  only  the 
first  eighty-six  are  required  to  introduce  the  author's 
bankruptcy.  After  giving  up  every  farthing  Mr.  Bras- 
bridge  found  himself  in  debt  to  the  amount  of  ;£2oo 
and  in  enmity  with  various  creditors  and  assignees, 
Q 


126  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

His  lease  fell  into  the  hands  of  another  silversmith, 
and  with  it  not  a  little  of  his  custom.  But  a  large 
measure  of  help  and  esteem  was  left  to  the  amateur 
viveur,  and  a  signal  act  of  kindness  was  done  him 
by  Mr.  John  Pridden,  the  bookseller,  who  gave  up 
his  shop  to  enable  Brasbridge  to  carry  on  business 
next  door  to  his  old  premises,  now  in  the  hands  of 
a  rival.  Happily,  the  bankrupt's  enemies  were  not 
those  of  his  own  household.  A  good  second  wife 
and  a  charming  daughter  stood  by  him,  and  endured 
with  patience  his  rhetoric  of  disappointment.  What 
this  was  like  appears  in  this  daughter's  excuse  for 
not  accompanying  her  father  on  one  occasion  up 
the  river  to  Chelsea.  "  I  knew,"  she  said  to  her 
mother,  "that  we  should  have  father  all  the  way 
recounting  'how  his  cart  had  broken  down,  and  his 
little  barque  had  struck  upon  the  rocks  of  Scylla,'  and 
therefore  I  begged  leave  to  decline  the  voyage." 

Mr.  Brasbridge's  observations,  rather  than  his  own 
doings,  give  interest  to  his  book.  He  mentions  that 
Mr.  John  Threlfall,  of  Fleet  Street,  whose  daughter 
married  Dr.  Abernethy,  was  so  athletic  that  he  could 
leap  over  the  New  River.  The  lighting  of  eighteenth- 
century  taverns  by  candles  must  have  presented  diffi- 
culties, but  Brasbridge  mentions  that  Mr.  Kenton, 
the  landlord  of  the  Crown  and  Magpie  Tavern  in 
Whitechapel,  understood  the  problem.  He  had  a 
peculiar  facility  in  snuffing  candles,  and  kept  two 
constantly  burning  at  his  side.  Having  lighted  all 
the  candles  in  the  tavern  together,  he  knew  by 
watching  these  when  to  run  round  the  rooms  snuffing 
all  the  rest. 

It  appears  that  the  art  of  advertisement  writing, 
now  so  well  understood  in  Fleet  Street,  was  not 
unborn.     Brasbridge's    own    advertisements    in    the 


THE   STREET   OF   THE   READY   WRITERS     227 

^'St.  James's  Chronicle"  were  written  for  him  by 
that  "elegant  writer  and  admired  preacher,"  the 
Reverend  Dr.  Cosens ;  and  Mr.  Henry  Baldwin,  the 
proprietor  of  the  paper  ("  my  friend  Harry  ")  usually 
placed  them  near  the  poetry  corner,  where  they 
attracted  the  notice  of  beneficed  clergy,  and  brought 
them  as  good  customers  to  98  Fleet  Street. 

Brasbridge's  pages  have  only  a  slight  Johnsonian 
interest.  Mrs.  Piozzi  would  put  her  head  into  his 
shop  on  her  way  to  Bolt  Court.  She  particularly 
admired  a  stock  of  papier-mache  tea-trays,  then 
newly  invented  by  Mr.  Clay  of  Covent  Garden.  They 
were  adorned  with  Etruscan  figures.  Clay  made  a 
fortune  of  ^80,000  out  of  these  trays,  some  of 
which  were  painted  by  well-known  artists  and  Royal 
Academicians. 

Having  cured  his  own  extravagances,  Mr.  Brasbridge 
was  human  enough  to  chastise  those  of  his  age.  He 
says  that  in  his  later  years  malt  liquors  had  disap- 
peared from  the  dinner-table  in  favour  of  claret  at 
five  shillings  a  bottle.  Next  to  foreign  wines  he 
reprobates  foreign  music  :  "  I  am  of  the  old  school, 
and  even  at  this  moment  the  pure  English  accents 
of  Charles  Bannister,  in  his  excellent  song,  ^  Merry 
is  the  hall  where  beards  wag  all,'  vibrate  on  my  ear, 
and  gladden  my  heart  with  many  a  recollected  scene 
of  harmless  festivity.  I  will  defy  any  Italian  opera 
to  produce  on  the  town  that  real  feeling  of  delight 
with  which  *  Love  in  a  Village '  was  received  on  its 
first  appearance,  or  any  Italian  signor  to  bring  out 
shakes  and  quavers  equal  to  the  unlaboured  graces 
of  John  Beard,  in  his  song  of  *  Why,  neighbour, 
ne'er  blush  for  a  trifle  like  this.'" 

In  the  end,  bereaved  of  his  children,  but  blest  with 
a   competence,   and   retaining  many  friends,   Joseph 


22$  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Brasbridge  retired  to  his  cottage  at  Heme  Hill,  where 
he  drank  beer  at  table,  played  cribbage  with  his  old 
wife  in  the  evenings,  and  went  to  bed  at  ten  on  a 
pipe  and  a  single  glass  of  grog.  In  the  morning  he 
watched  his  rich  neighbours  roll  past  to  the  City  in 
their  carriages.  Now  and  then  he  went  up  in  the 
stage-coach,  talking  with  his  rich  friend,  Mr.  Blades, 
of  Ludgate  Hill,  to  whom  he  confessed  that  he  was 
overawed  at  Heme  Hill  by  so  many  rich  neighbours. 
"  You  show  the  awe  you  stand  in  by  laughing  at  us," 
was  the  thrusting  reply. 

Peele's  Coffee-house  does  not  figure  in  Brasbridge's 
list  of  Fleet  Street  nooks ;  its  literary  atmosphere  was 
probably  too  dense  for  him.  Peele's  is  still  repre- 
sented by  the  tavern  at  the  foot  of  Fetter  Lane. 
Here  law  and  literature  met  to  read  the  news.  The 
place  dated  from  the  days  of  George  I,  and  was 
famous  for  its  files  of  newspapers,  the  best  outside 
the  British  Museum.  Among  those  who  searched 
them  were  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  Lord  Macaulay, 
Dickens,  William  Cobbett,  and  Douglas  Jerrold.  The 
collection  included  files  of  the  '*  London  Gazette " 
(from  1759),  "  The  Times  "  (from  1780),  and  the  **  Morn- 
ing Herald,"  "  Morning  Chronicle,"  and  "  Morning 
Advertiser."  When  newspapers  became  cheap  Peele's 
was  of  less  account  as  a  news-room.  A  writer  in 
**  Notes  and  Queries  "  desired  to  know  what  became 
of  the  collection.  I  can  account  for  a  good  many 
copies  of  Peele's  set  of  the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine  "  ; 
these  are  now  in  my  possession  and  in  an  advanced 
state  of  disjunction. 

Establishments  of  the  kind  have  survived  to  recent 
years  ;  there  was  a  news-room  half-way  down  Fleet 
Street,  on  the  north  side,  twenty  years  ago,  affording 
SI  view  of  a  wonderful  amateur  roof-garden  on   the 


THE  STREET  OF  THE   READY  WRITERS     229 

other  side  of  the  street  ;  another  for  country  and 
colonial  newspapers  in  New  Oxford  Street ;  and  in 
the  chess-room  of  old  Simpson's  (closed  in  1903  to 
make  way  for  the  new  restaurant)  there  was  a  collec- 
tion of  bound  magazines  of  the  good  old  sort. 

A  tragic  death  occurred  at  Peele's  on  15  June,  1848. 
Thomas  Steele,  known  as  "  Honest  Tom  Steele,"  had 
thrown  himself  into  the  Thames  from  Waterloo  Bridge. 
He  was  the  trusted  friend  and  political  aide-de-camp 
of  O'Connell,  by  whom  he  was  appointed  "  Head 
Pacificator"  of  Ireland,  in  spite  of  his  hot  and 
quixotic  temperament.  When  O'Connell's  brother 
was  asked,  ^'  Why  did  Dan  make  a  semi-lunatic  his 
head  pacificator  ? "  he  answered,  "  Why,  indeed  ! 
Pray,  who  the  devil  else  would  take  such  a  position  ?  " 
Steele  was  a  Protestant,  but  his  devotion  to  O'Connell 
was  such  that  he  kept  an  altar  in  his  house  against 
his  visits.  He  once  fought  a  duel  on  his  behalf.  He 
wore  out  his  health  and  fortune  in  the  cause  of  the 
repeal  of  the  Union  ;  but  after  O'Connell's  death 
he  was  unable  to  "  pacificate  "  his  own  heart  and  the 
world  about  him,  and  the  evil  day  came  when  he 
betook  himself  to  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  The  Thames 
waters  did  not  quite  drown  him,  but  he  died  at  Peele's 
Coffee-house,  loved  and  lamented  by  men  of  all 
shades  of  opinion. 

Outside  Peele's  an  interesting  scramble  occurred  on 
a  day  in  1766.  A  sedan-chair  met  a  crowd  at  the 
corner ;  there  was  a  scuffle  as  to  who  should  turn  up 
Fetter  Lane  first ;  the  sedan  was  upset ;  and  two 
personable  youths  were  tumbled  in  the  roadway.  One 
was  William  Scott,  afterwards  Lord  Eldon,  the  other 
John  Scott,  afterwards  Lord  Stowell.  William  had 
come  up  to  London  from  Newcastle  to  meet  his 
brother,  who  was  to  induct  him  at  Oxford.    The  coach 


230  A  LONDONER'S  LONDON 

that  carried  him  up  bore  the  motto,  Sat  ciio,  si  sat  bene 
(Soon  enough,  if  but  well  enough).  Lord  Eldon  long 
afterward  recalled  these  words,  which  had  been  graven 
on  his  memory  by  an  incident  at  the  inn  at  Tuxford. 
A  Quaker  in  the  coach  called  a  chambermaid  to  the 
door  and  gave  her  sixpence,  explaining  that  he  forgot 
to  give  it  to  her  when  he  was  there  two  years  before. 
Amazed  by  this  precision,  young  Scott  had  the  shrewd 
impudence  to  say,  "  Friend,  have  you  seen  the  motto 
on  this  coach?"  ^^  No."  *'Then  look  at  it;  for  I 
think  giving  her  only  sixpence  now  is  neither  sat  cito 
nor  sat  bene."  When  the  sedan-chair  upset  in  Fleet 
Street,  Scott  made  his  ^rst  application  of  his  newly 
acquired  wisdom.  "  This,  thought  I,  is  more  than  sat 
citOf  and  it  certainly  is  not  sat  bene."  And  he  adds  : 
'Mn  all  that  I  have  had  to  do,  in  future  life,  professional 
and  judicial,  I  have  always  felt  the  effect  of  this  early 
admonition  on  the  panels  of  the  vehicle  which  con- 
veyed me  from  school."  Old  Fetter  Lane,  as  Eldon 
knew  it  in  1766,  and  Coleridge  fifty  years  later,  and 
Samuel  Butler  in  our  own  time  (he  was  "  especially 
prone  to  get  ideas "  there),  has  lost  a  certain  Praise- 
God-Barebones  atmosphere  of  schism  and  conven- 
ticle, though  the  little  Moravian  church  survives. 
Gone  is  the  old  White  Horse  coaching  inn  and  its 
neighbour  houses,  a  beautiful  seventeenth  century 
group,  and  the  ghostly  little  house  on  the  east  side, 
near  Fleet  Street,  which  pretended  to  have  been  a 
home  of  John  Dryden. 

Among  old  Fleet  Street  shops  none  is  more  famous 
than  Hardham's  snuff-shop.  It  was  No.  106,  close  to 
Ludgate  Circus,  and  here  was  sold  the  snuff  whose 
merits  Garrick  puffed  on  the  stage  at  Drury  Lane.  This 
was  known  as  "  No.  37."  For  many  years  Hardham 
counted  the  "pit"  for  Garrick,  and  by  his  punctuality 


THE   STREET   OF  THE   READY   WRITERS     231 

and  carefulness  won  the  great  man's  friendship.  So 
one  story  runs ;  but  there  are  others.  Foote  is  also 
named  as  the  author  of  the  puff.  Another  Highlander 
stood  outside  Micklan's  snuff-shop  at  No.  12  Fleet 
Street.  It  was  damaged  one  night  by  a  young  roy- 
sterer,  who  was  sued  by  Mr.  Micklan  for  thirteen 
guineas  in  compensation.  This,  he  said,  was  a  moder- 
ate demand,  because  without  the  Highlander  he  would 
not  have  done  more  than  half  his  business,  and  his 
takings  had  increased  by  thirty  shillings  a  day  since  he 
installed  the  figure.  To-day  there  is  no  Highlander  on 
Fleet  Street,  and  this  great  race  is  dying  out.  The 
father  of  London's  wooden  Highlanders  was  placed 
outside  Wishart's  snuff-shop  at  the  north-east  corner 
of  the  Haymarket  on  the  dry  of  the  birth  of  Charles 
Edward  Stuart  in  1720.  At  a  later  period  Wishart's 
was  removed  to  No.  42,  over  the  way,  where  it 
flourished  under  the  sign  of  "  The  Highlander, 
Thistle,  and  Crown."  Wishart's  is  now  in  Panton 
Street.  David  Wishart  not  only  initiated  this  sign, 
but  he  manufactured  wooden  Highlanders  for  other 
tradesmen.  The  Wishart  Highlander,  still  depicted 
on  the  firm's  card,  does  not  wear  kilts,  but  doublet 
and  trews,  and  he  carries  the  Highland  targe.  It  is 
said,  but  probably  with  little  foundation,  that  these 
Highlander  figures  were  a  token  that  the  houses  they 
adorned  sympathized  with  the  Jacobite  party. 

The  sign  of  the  Highlander  spread  quickly  through 
the  London  snuff-shops,  and  nowhere  was  more 
honoured  than  at  Hardham's.  According  to  the  author 
of  ^'  Real  Life  in  London,"  this  snuff-seller's  fame 
was  established  in  the  Haymarket  by  Samuel  Foote, 
who,  in  one  of  his  most  popular  characters  at 
the  Little  Theatre,  offered  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  to  the 
question  where  he  obtained  it  replied,  '^  Why  at  Hard- 


232  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

ham's,  to  be  sure."     Hardham  died  in  1772,  and  left 
a  fortune  exceeding  ;^2o,ooo. 

I  am  told  that  the  true  reason  for  the  mortality 
among  wooden  Highlanders  is  to  be  found  in  the 
cost  of  their  upkeep.  The  price  of  a  new  figure  is 
very  considerable.  It  must  be  carved  out  of  a  single 
piece  of  wood.  To  repaint  a  Highlander  well  and 
correctly  is  the  work  of  a  skilled  artist,  and  would  cost 
about  ;£20.  When  this  expenditure  has  been  necessary, 
many  a  tobacconist  has  considered  that  he  could  lay 
out  the  money  to  better  if  less  picturesque  advantage. 

Dr.  Johnson's  memory,  pace  my  old  friend,  has 
entered  into  the  air  of  Fleet  Street ;  we  smell  him 
in  the  dark.  And  London  has  lately  shown  that  she 
is  not  tired  of  his  domination  of  her  *' highway  of 
letters."  His  statue  now  looks  down  the  street,  and 
his  house  has  become  a  secure  shrine.  Could  the 
doctor  return  to  its  glimpses  he  would  be  staggered 
by  the  "  fury  of  innovation  "  which  has  now  removed 
Temple  Bar,  as  in  his  own  day  it  removed  Tyburn. 
Yet  his  eye,  roaming  down  the  old  long  vista,  would 
soon  be  dim  with  recognition :  the  Middle  Temple 
Gateway,  the  old  curve  and  gradient,  some  of  the 
houses,  nearly  all  the  courts  and  alleys,  and  the 
farrago  of  roofs  lifting  the  eye  to  the  Dome  and  Cross, 
would  assure  him  of  his  "  daily  walks  and  ancient 
neighbourhood." 

It  is  by  one  of  the  happiest  of  fates  that  the  house 
in  which  Johnson  compiled  his  Dictionary,  wrote  his 
"Rambler"  essays,  and  dreamed  and  wrote  "  Rasselas," 
should  stand  to-day  in  the  literary  maelstrom  of 
London.  This  sturdy  old  building,  which  was  in 
danger  of  demolition  some  years  ago,  is  now  to  be 
filled  with  relics,  and  with  echoes  of  Johnson's  fame. 
It    is    more  than    his  workshop ;    it    is    the    empty 


THE  OLD  WHITE  HORSE  INN,  FETTER  LANE 

GONE    IS    THE   OLD    WHITE    HORSE   COACHING   INN    AND    ITS   NEIGHHOUR    HOUSES, 
A    BEAUTIFUL    SEVENTEENTH    CENTUKY   GKOUI"      (l'.   230) 


THE  STREET  OF  THE   READY  WRITERS     233 

nest  of  his  vexed  home  Hfe,  and  the  tomb  of  his 
greatest  devotion.  One  cannot  enter  it  without 
recalling  the  stately,  pragmatical  lady  who  "  desired 
the  praise  of  neatness  in  her  dress  and  furniture,  as 
many  ladies  do,  till  they  become  troublesome  to  their 
best  friends,  slaves  to  their  own  besoms,  and  only  sigh 
for  the  hour  of  sweeping  their  husbands  out  of  the 
house  as  dirt  and  lumber."  Mrs.  Piozzi  asked  Johnson 
whether  he  ever  disputed  with  his  wife.  He  answered, 
"  Perpetually."  And  did  he  ever  huff  his  wife  ?  ^'  So 
often  that  at  last  she  called  to  me,  and  said,  '  Nay, 
hold,  Mr.  Johnson,  and  do  not  make  a  farce  of  thanking 
God  for  a  dinner  which  in  a  few  minutes  you  will  pro- 
test is  not  eatable  ! ' "  But  when  Tettie  died,  and  he 
had  laid  her  in  Bromley  Church,  Johnson  put  up  a 
fervent  prayer  that  the  wife  who  had  ruffled  him  for 
forty  years  might  be  permitted  to  influence  him  in  his 
dreams. 

Although  he  wrote  his  ^'  Ramblers  "  here,  there,  and 
everywhere,  many  of  them  were  written  in  the  Gough 
Square  house.  Their  success  was  not  great.  Johnson 
received  four  guineas  a  week  for  two  essays — a  rate  of 
payment  which  works  out  at  about  a  guinea  the 
thousand  words.  The  sales,  at  twopence  a  number, 
did  not  reach  five  hundred  copies  a  day;  but  Mrs. 
Johnson,  when  she  read  them,  was  less  inclined  to 
regard  her  lord  as  lumber.  "  I  thought  very  well  of 
you  before,"  she  said,  "  but  I  did  not  imagine  you  could 
have  written  anything  equal  to  this."  Nor  did  he  lack 
self-approval.  He  said  to  a  friend,  ^'  My  other  works 
are  wine  and  water,  but  my  *  Rambler '  is  pure  wine." 

Another  literary  undertaking  and  another  great 
sorrow  marked  Johnson's  residence  in  Gough  Square. 
As  early  as  1744  he  had  projected  an  annotated  edition 
of  Shakespeare.     Now,  in  1756,  well  rid  of  his  Die- 


234  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

tionary,  he  decided  to  resume  this  task,  and  he  there- 
fore issued  his  ^'  Proposals "  with  all  circumstance. 
He  announced,  as  it  were  with  tucked  wrist-bands, 
that  the  edition  would  be  ready  by  the  Christmas  of 
the  following  year.  It  was  not  completed  in  less  than 
nine  years.  Boswell  thinks  that  it  was  Churchill's 
satire  that  at  last  spurred  the  unwilling  horse  to  his 
journey's  end.  On  the  whole  it  was  calculated  to 
do  so  : — 

He  for  subscribers  bates  his  hook, 

And  takes  your  cash ;  but  where's  the  book  ? 

Johnson's  last  year  in  Gough  Square  was  clouded  by 
the  death  of  his  mother,  at  the  age  of  ninety.  In  the 
"Idler"  (No.  41),  which  he  had  begun  to  issue  as  a 
weekly  paper,  he  referred  to  this  event  in  those  words 
of  sombre  beauty,  beginning  :  "  The  last  year,  the  last 
day,  must  come.  It  has  come  and  is  past.  The  life 
which  made  my  own  life  pleasant  is  at  an  end,  and 
the  gates  of  death  are  shut  upon  my  prospects."  It 
was  not  literally  so.  Johnson  lived  for  another  quarter 
of  a  century,  and  grew  in  Chamship  and  wisdom. 
And,  indeed,  this  bereavement  immediately  set  him 
to  write  "  Rasselas,"  if  only  to  relieve  his  heart  and  to 
pay  his  mother's  funeral  expenses. 

It  is  constantly  stated  that  "  Rasselas"  was  written 
in  Staple  Inn.  But  that  honour  belongs  to  Fleet 
Street.  On  23  March,  1759,  Johnson  wrote  to  his 
step-daughter.  Miss  Lucy  Porter,  "  I  have  this  day 
moved  my  things  and  you  are  now  to  direct  to  me  at 
Staple  Inn,  London.  ...  I  am  going  to  pubHsh  a 
little  story-book  which  I  will  send  you  when  it  is  out." 
We  know  that  "  Rasselas  "  was  published  "  in  March 
or  .April  "  of  this  year  1759.     If  it  was  published  in 


THE   STREET   OF  THE   READY   WRITERS     235 

March  there  is  an  end  to  doubt,  because  after  the  date 
of  Johnson's  entry  into  Staple  Inn  (23  March),  there 
remained  only  eight  days  in  this  month  for  the  com- 
pletion of  the  story  by  himself  and  its  issue  by  the 
publishers — an  impossibility  that  is  not  seriously 
diminished  if  we  grant  that  publication  might  have 
taken  place  at  the  end  of  April.  For  this  is  to  allow 
only  five  weeks,  at  the  most,  for  the  completion  of  the 
story  by  Johnson,  his  negotiations  with  the  three 
booksellers  who  joined  to  buy  it,  and  the  printing  and 
production  of  the  book.  That  this  unanimous  haste 
was  used  is  incredible.  We  know,  by  Johnson's  state- 
ment to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  that  ^'  Rasselas "  was 
written  in  the  evenings  of  one  week,  and  that  it  went 
to  press  in  portions  as  it  was  written.  Those  topo- 
graphers, therefore,  who  suggest  that  "  parts "  of 
^'Rasselas"  were  written  in  Staple  Inn  are  asserting 
that  Johnson  wrote  his  story  in  the  six  evenings  of  the 
week  in  which  he  removed  from  Gough  Square  (after 
ten  years'  residence)  to  his  chambers  in  Staple  Inn  ; 
wrote,  that  is  to  say,  some  of  its  chapters  in  the 
turmoil  of  his  departure  from  Fleet  Street  and  the  rest 
in  the  turmoil  of  his  arrival  in  Holborn.  That  is 
incredible.  And  Johnson's  words  to  Lucy  Potter,  "  I 
am  going  to  publish,"  etc.,  indicate  that  the  story  was 
already  written.  It  is  not  unimportant  to  establish  the 
fact  that  "  Rasselas "  was  written  in  this  old  red-brick 
house,  in  the  pocket  of  silence  which  is  Gough  Square. 
There  from  night  to  night  the  pilgrimage  progressed  ; 
there  Imlac  grew  eloquent  and  Pequah  timid  ;  the 
Pyramids  were  measured,  and  the  Astronomer  rescued 
from  the  mists  of  a  distraught  imagination  ;  and  there, 
it  may  be,  when  the  midnight  stroke  of  St.  Paul's  put 
its  melancholy  atcent  on  a  theme  as  old  as  man  and 
elusive    as    his    breath,   Johnson    penned   that   quiet 


236  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

"  Conclusion  in  which  nothing  is  concluded/'  save 
only  that  '^  they  deliberated  a  while  what  was  to  be 
done,  and  resolved,  when  the  inundation  should  cease, 
to  return  to  Abissinia." 

The  claims  of  the  Cheshire  Cheese  Tavern  to  be 
venerated  as  a  haunt  of  Dr.  Johnson  are  often  ad- 
vanced and  questioned.  I  know  of  only  two  sources 
for  the  tradition,  and  they  are  both  weak  :  Cyrus 
Redding's  "Fifty  Years'  Recollections,"  published  in 
1858,  and  Cyrus  Jay's  reminiscences,  published  in 
1868.  All  the  evidence  comes  from  the  two  Cyruses. 
Cyrus  Jay's  book,  "  The  Law  :  What  I  Have  Seen, 
What  I  Have  Heard,  and  What  I  Have  Known,"  was 
published  in  1867.  In  it  he  writes  :  '^  I  may  here 
mention  that  when  I  first  visited  the  house  I  used  to 
meet  several  very  old  gentlemen  who  remembered 
Dr.  Johnson  nightly  at  the  ^Cheshire  Cheese';  and  they 
have  told  me,  what  is  not  generally  known,  that  the 
Doctor,  whilst  living  in  the  Temple,  always  went  to 
the  *  Mitre'  or  the  Essex  Head  ;  but  when  he  removed 
to  Gough  Square  and  Bolt  Court  he  was  a  constant 
visitor  to  the  *  Cheshire  Cheese,'  because  nothing  but  a 
hurricane  would  have  induced  him  to  cross  Fleet  Street." 

It  is  curious  that  Cyrus  Jay  should  write  (in  1867) 
that  Johnson's  connection  with  the  "Cheshire  Cheese" 
"is  not  generally  known,"  for  nine  years  earlier,  in 
1858,  the  other  Cyrus — Redding — had  written  :  "  I 
often  dined  at  the  *  Mitre  '  and  the  *  Cheshire  Cheese.' 
Johnson  and  his  friends,  I  was  informed,  used  to  do 
the  same,  and  I  was  told  I  should  see  individuals  who 
had  met  them  there  ;  and  this  I  found  to  be  correct." 
So  the  Johnsonian  tradition  was  fairly  "generally 
known "  in  1857.  However,  it  is  very  similarly 
recorded  by  the  two  Cyruses.  But  Jay  ought  to 
have  demurred  to  his  ancient  friends'  statement  that 


THE   STREET   OF  THE   READY   WRITERS     237 

Johnson  went  to  the  ''Cheshire  Cheese"  ''because 
nothing  but  a  hurricane  would  have  induced  him  to 
cross  Fleet  Street."  A  hurricane,  by  the  way,  would 
rather  have  kept  him  on  his  own  side  of  it ;  and  if  the 
word  be  only  a  metaphor,  we  know  as  a  fact  that 
Johnson  was  for  ever  crossing  Fleet  Street  long  after 
he  went  to  live  in  Gough  Square  and  Bolt  Court.  He 
lived  in  Gough  Square  from  1748  to  1758  ;  then  he 
left  Fleet  Street,  to  return  to  it  in  1765,  never  to  leave 
it  again,  except  to  travel,  until  his  death  in  1784.  Not 
once  is  the  "  Cheshire  Cheese  "  mentioned  by  Boswell, 
who  does,  however,  record  many  visits  to  the  "  Mitre,"  to 
reach  which  tavern  Johnson  had  to  cross  Fleet  Street 
— hurricane  or  no  hurricane.  The  old  gentlemen  had 
better  not  have  given  a  reason  for  their  story. 

Tennyson  was  not  the  first  poet  who  quaffed  wine 
in  Fleet  Street  and  felt  the  better  for  it.  In  the 
innumerable  references  to  the  Devil  Tavern  I  find 
much  about  Ben  Jonson,  and  the  Apollo  room,  and 
Ben's  "Leges  Conviviales"  in  gold  letters  over  the 
chimney-piece,  but  the  richest  Jonsonian  tribute  to  the 
wine  here  is  omitted.  It  is  found  in  a  manuscript 
preserved  at  Dulwich  College,  in  which  Ben  carefully 
notes  the  occasions  when  his  Muse  "  smote  her  life 
into  the  liquor,"  and  one  or  two  when  she  did  not. 
Says  he  : — 

"  Mem.  I  laid  the  plot  of  my  '  Volpone '  and  wrote 
most  of  it  after  a  present  of  ten  dozen  of  Palm  Sack, 

from  my  very  good   Lord   T ;    that   play,  I   am 

positive,  will  last  to  posterity,  and  be  acted  when  I  and 
Envoy  be  friends,  with  applause. 

"  Mem,  The  first  speech  in  my  Catiline,  spoken  by 
Scylla's  ghost,  was  writ  after  I  parted  with  my  friends 
at  the  Devil  Tavern ;  I  had  drunk  well  that  night  and 
had  brave  notions.     There  is  one  scene  in  that  play 


238  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

which  I  think  is  flat.  /  resolve  to  drink  no  more  water 
with  my  wine, 

^^  Mem,  Upon  the  20th  of  May  the  King  (Heaven 
reward  him)  sent  me  a  hundred  pounds.  At  that  time 
I  went  oftentimes  to  the  Devil ;  and  before  I  spent  forty 
of  it,  wrote  my  *  Alchemist.' 

**  Mem,     My  Lord  B took  me  with  him  into  the 

country  ;  there  was  great  plenty  of  excellent  Canary. 
A  new  character  offered  itself  to  me  here  ;  upon  which 
1  wrote  my  *  Silent  Woman ' ;  my  lord  was  highly 
delighted  ;  and  upon  my  reading  the  first  act  to  him, 
made  me  a  noble  present,  ordering  at  the  same  time  a 
good  portion  of  the  wine  to  be  sent  with  me  to 
London.     It  lasted  me  until  my  work  was  finished. 

''Mem,  'The  Divill  is  no  Asse,'  the  'Tale  of  a 
Tub,'  and  some  other  comedies  which  did  not 
succeed,  by  me  in  the  winter  honest  Ralp  died  ;  when 
I  and  my  boys  drank  had  wine  at  the  Devil." 

A  third  poet  who  loved  good  wine  sent  his  poetry  to 
Fleet  Street  to  be  published.  Keats's  friends,  Taylor 
and  Hessey,  had  their  office  at  No.  93,  and  thither, 
piece  by  piece,  went  the  manuscript  and  corrections  of 
'*  Endymion." 

But  the  most  splendid  poetic  event,  and  the  most 
forgotten,  in  Fleet  Street's  annals  occurred  a  hundred 
years  ago.  On  i  March,  1812,  "Childe  Harold  "  was 
published  at  32  Fleet  Street.  Thither  John  Murray 
the  First  had  come  from  the  Navy  to  publish  books. 
If  he  could  have  had  his  way  he  would  have  set  up 
bookselling  in  partnership  with  another  son  of 
Neptune,  William  Falconer  of  "  Shipwreck "  fame. 
As  it  was,  in  November,  1768,  he  sent  out  his  mani- 
festos and  invoices  adorned  with  a  ship  in  full  sail. 
The  full  sail  was  a  little  premature,  for  he  had  often  to 
reef  his  canvas. 


THE   STREET   OF   THE   READY   WRITERS     239 

Murray  was  the  link  between  two  ages  of  literature 
and  two  phases  of  Fleet  Street.  He  knew  Johnson 
and  his  son  published  for  Byron.  One  December  day 
in  1784  he  stood  bareheaded  to  see  Johnson's  funeral 
go  by.  His  simple  and  solemn  record  gives  one  the 
"historic  shudder."  "Poor  Dr.  Johnson's  remains 
passed  my  door  for  interment  this  afternoon.  They 
were  accompanied  by  thirteen  mourning-coaches  with 
four  horses  each  ;  and  after  these  a  cavalcade  of  the 
carriages  of  his  friends.  He  was  about  to  be  buried  in 
Westminster  Abbey." 

John  Murray  the  Second,  the  "  Anak  of  Publishers," 
was  established  at  32  Fleet  Street,  with  its  side-door 
in  Falcon  Court,  in  1794.  Here  he  entered  into  rela- 
tions with  Constable  and  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  here 
he  forged  that  bomb  for  the  Whigs,  the  "  Quarterly 
Review."  The  pavement  of  Falcon  Court  has  been 
trodden  by  Sir  Walter.  One  day  in  1809  David 
Wilkie,  dining  at  Murray's,  was  introduced  to  the 
author  of  "  Marmion,"  to  whose  talk  about  the  feudal 
Highlanders  he  listened  with  rapture,  and  perhaps  not 
less  intently  to  his  recitation  of  Campbell's  "  Lochiel's 
Warning." 

The  shop  at  No.  32  was  in  a  turmoil  on  i  Marcli, 
1812.  "Childe  Harold  "was  being  published.  That 
night  Byron  slept  at  his  rooms  at  No.  8  St.  James's 
Street,  over  the  chemist's  shop,  and  on  the  morrow 
(2  March)  he  awoke,  as  he  said,  to  find  himself 
famous  :  "  Childe  Harold  "  was  in  every  one's  hand,  in 
every  one's  mouth.  Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  walking 
down  Bond  Street,  saw  it  in  the  windows  of  all  the 
booksellers.  "  I  entered  a  shop  and  read  a  few 
stanzas,  and  was  not  surprised  to  find  something 
extraordinary  in  them,  because  I  myself  had  antici- 
pated  much  from  his  '  Hours  of  Idleness.'  .  .  .  The 


k 


240  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

affair  of  this  mighty  fame  was  an  affair  of  a  day — nay, 
of  an  hour — minute.  The  train  was  laid  ;  it  caught 
fire,  and  it  blazed.  If  it  had  missed  fire  at  first,  I 
doubt  if  there  would  have  been  a  second  chance.  It 
began  at  noon  ;  before  night  the  flame  was  strong 
enough  to  be  everlasting." 

Moore  tells  of  Byron's  table  being  strewn  with  letters 
from  statesmen,  great  ladies,  and  unknown  admirers, 
and  of  the  transformation  of  the  poet's  outlook  on 
London.  *'  In  place  of  the  desert  which  London  had 
been  to  him  but  a  few  weeks  before,  he  now  not  only 
saw  the  whole  splendid  interior  of  high  life  thrown 
open  to  receive  him,  but  found  himself  among  its 
illustrious  crowds  its  most  distinguished  object." 
Which  of  us  has  not  given  Byron  that  ovation  in  his 
heart  ? 

It  has  not  ill-happened  that  geography  is  now  en- 
throned at  32  Fleet  Street,  for  "Childe  Harold"  is  the 
sublime  of  geography.  Those  shrine-worshippers  who 
demand  evidence  of  Byron's  visits  to  the  house  can 
be  satisfied.  He  would  come  straight  from  Angelo's 
fencing-rooms  and  make  lunges  with  his  cane  at 
Murray's  books.  The  act  was  typical  of  his  entry 
into  literature  and  Fleet  Street,  for  he  came,  not  as 
the  scribes,  but  drenched  in  youth  and  the  love  of 
life.  When  Miller  had  received  the  last  manuscript 
of  Johnson's  Dictionary  from  Fleet  Street,  and  ex- 
claimed ''  Thank  God  ;  I  have  seen  the  last  of  him  1 " 
this  was  life  groaning  under  the  burden  of  literature. 
When  Murray  said  of  Byron's  incursions  into  his  shop, 
"  I  was  often  very  glad  to  be  rid  of  him,"  this  was 
literature  disturbed  by  excess  of  life. 

Byron  hated  the  *'  shop  "  and  the  cliquishness  of  the 
literary  system.  He  was  furious  when  he  learned  that 
Murray  had  shown  his  manuscript  to  Gifford  of  the 


THE  STREET   OF  THE   READY  WRITERS     241 

"  Quarterly  "  and  other  critical  cronies.  To  Dallas  he 
wrote,  ^*  I  will  be  angry  with  Murray.  It  was  back- 
shop,  Paternoster  Row,  paltry  proceeding"  —  this 
reference  of  his  manuscript  to  others — and  he  adds, 
with  an  interesting  touch,  "  If  the  experiment  had 
turned  out  as  it  deserved,  I  would  have  raised  all 
Fleet  Street,  and  borrowed  the  giant's  staff  from 
St.  Dunstan's  Church  to  immolate  the  betrayer  of 
trust." 

It  would  be  good  to  see  on  the  front  of  32  Fleet 
Street  a  tablet  recording  the  fact  that  this  was  the 
birthplace,  in  the  publishing  sense,  of  the  poem  which 
poured  like  fire  over  Europe,  bearing  Byron's  name 
from  Fleet  Street  to  the  Acropolis.  Howbeit  the  con- 
nexion of  Byron  with  Fleet  Street  has  been  celebrated 
with  zeal,  though  on  a  less  suitable  spot,  by  Sir  J.  Tol- 
lemache  Sinclair.  At  No.  85,  on  the  same  side  as  32, 
this  gentleman  has  adorned  the  corridor  of  his  pro- 
perty, Byron  House,  wath  marble  tablets  inscribed 
with  a  veritable  anthology  of  Byron's  poetry,  and  with 
a  bust  of  the  ''  Pilgrim  of  Eternity."  The  quotations 
include  a  couplet  from  the  ^^  Hints  from  Horace,''  in 
which  the  case  for  Byron  will  again  and  again  be 
found. 

'Tis  not  enough,  ye  Bards,  with  all  your  art, 
To  polish  poems  ; — they  must  touch  the  heart. 

Elsewhere  in  London  Byron's  memory  has  been 
honoured.  His  house  in  St.  James's  Street  and  his 
birthplace  in  Holies  Street  are  marked  with  tablets. 
His  statue  is  in  Hyde  Park,  oddly  near  to  Londonderry 
House,  with  its  suggestions  of  Lord  Castlereagh,  whom 
he  hated,  and  facing  the  great  social  whirlpool  which 
he  never  wished  to  see  again.  His  London  haunts 
have  hardly  changed.     No.  4  Ben  net  Street,  where  he 


242  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

lodged,  is  still  a  lodging-house,  and  it  is  probable  that 
its  very  area  railings  are  those  he  knew.  His  rooms 
in  the  "  Albany,"  from  which  he  set  out  to  be  married, 
and  his  house  in  Piccadilly,  from  which  he  set  out  to 
exile  and  death,  are  still  standing.  Samuel  Rogers' 
house,  where  he  first  met  Moore,  and  Murray's  draw- 
ing-room, where  he  first  met  Scott,  are  unchanged  ; 
and  you  may  still  walk  the  pavement  in  Albemarle 
Street  on  which  he  paced  to  compose  "  The  Corsair." 
Hard  by  is  the  house  that  was  Watier's  Club,  where 
he  was  one  of  three  men  of  letters  who  belonged 
to  that  home  of  dancing  and  gaming.  Everywhere 
his  footsteps  are  to  be  traced,  and  in  going  out  of 
London  your  eye  may  fall  on  the  woods  of  Dulwich, 
which  he  knew  under  Dr.  Glennie,  or  on  the  spire  of 
Harrow  Church,  where  he  dreamed  as  a  boy,  and 
where  his  daughter  is  buried. 

Let  Fleet  Street,  then,  take  dignity  from  Johnson 
and  glory  from  Byron.  It  is  curious  that  Byron's 
grandmother,  Sophia  Trevanion,  knew  Johnson  and 
was  one  of  his  favourites.  In  mentioning  this,  Mrs. 
Piozzi  adds  her  conviction  (upon  which  there  may  be 
two  opinions)  that  the  Doctor  would  have  been  glad 
that  his  old  friend's  grandson  was  a  poet.  What  John- 
son would  have  thought  of  "  Childe  Harold "  let 
imaginative  critics  decide.  What  Byron  thought  of 
Johnson  may  be  discovered  from  his  letters.  "  'Tis  a 
grand  poem,  and  so  truCj" — he  exclaimed  on  the  "Vanity 
of  Human  Wishes" — "  true  as  the  loth  of  Juvenal  him- 
self. The  lapse  of  ages  changes  all  things — time — 
language — the  earth — the  bounds  of  the  sea — the  stars 
of  the  sky,  and  everything  'above,  around,  and  under- 
neath '  man,  except  man  himself,  who  has  always  been, 
and  always  will  be,  an  unlucky  rascal." 

Strange  that  the  *'  Highway  of  Letters  "  should  have 


THE   STREET   OF  THE   READY   WRITERS     243 

known  these  two  men  :  the  traditional  author  battling 
for  the  dignity  and  rewards  of  literature,  and  the 
favourite  of  the  gods  winning  the  game  without  a 
thought  of  the  rules.  Strange  that  each  should  have 
voiced  that  larger  pessimism  which  sombres  and  does 
not  weaken.  Yet  it  is  to  Johnson  alone  that  Fleet 
Street  would  talk  of  its  troubles  to-day.  We  cannot 
confer  with  a  comet,  but  under  a  planet  we  can  live 
and  prophesy.  Could  Johnson  revisit  the  glimpses  of 
Fleet  Street,  and  be  heard  at  the  "  Cheshire  Cheese," 
what  words  should  we  hear  across  the  sawdust  ?  I 
suppose  that  nothing  would  amaze  him  more  than  the 
inclusion  of  literature  among  the  necessaries  of  life, 
the  openness  of  its  doors,  the  abundance  of  its  emolu- 
ments and  honours.  He  would  find  that  hterature 
had  found  its  place  in  the  sun.  Would  the  spectacle 
have  fulfilled  his  hopes,  or  would  the  "  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes'  recur  to  him  as  an  unfinished  theme? 
He  would  presently  focus  his  attention  on  the  forms 
of  literature  and  the  classes  of  writers  that  he  had 
himself  known  and  loved  in  Fleet  Street ;  he  would 
examine  the  position  of  the  poet,  the  essayist,  and  the 
scholar.  Quickly  he  would  make  the  discovery  that 
toil  and  want  are  still  their  frequent  portion.  He  would 
hear  recent  life-stories  quite  as  poignant  as  those  of 
Savage  and  Collins.  He  would  hear  of  pensions,  and 
despair.  He  would  find  that  the  public  is  now  the 
only  patron,  and  would  be  amazed  by  his  misgivings 
on  this  subject.  He  would  be  baffled  once  more  to 
distinguish  between  the  misfortunes  and  errors  of 
authors.  And,  finally,  I  trow  he  would  convince 
himself  that  beneath  all  that  multiplication  of  books 
and  readers  which  he  had  desired,  beneath  all  phe- 
nomena of  production  and  reward.  Literature  (as  he 
and  Goldsmith  understood   it)  remains   a  precarious 


244  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

profession,  because  it  gives  competence  and  security 
to  its  followers  only  as  the  weather  gives  us  a  spell  of 
sunshine.  We  may  observe  and  predict,  but  the  old 
uncertainty  will  return,  the  storms  and  frosts  surprise 
us,  and  the  eternal  variations  of  adjustment  between 
the  brooding  writer  and  the  stressful  world  assert 
themselves. 

These  unstable  conditions  are  never  left  behind  ; 
they  advance  with  the  wave,  being  of  the  very  character 
of  its  motion.  There  will  always  be  writers  of  poetry 
and  belles-lettres  who  cannot  find  enough  readers. 
This  will  be  their  misfortune  ;  but  it  will  not  be  the 
misfortune  of  literature;  on  the  contrary,  it  will  be  its 
dayspring  and  rebirth.  A  system  that  would  prevent 
it  must  kill  literature  by  eliminating  its  inspirer — 
struggle.  Moreover,  a  society  that  could  welcome 
every  attack  on  itself,  abet  every  iconoclasm,  and 
applaud  every  dream  that  transcended  and  threatened 
its  own  order,  would  be  as  temperamental  as  its 
geniuses,  and  would  dissolve  in  its  own  fluidity  ;  it 
would  hardly  have  need  of  formal  literature. 

Deep  down  in  its  heart  Fleet  Street  knows  that  fine 
literature  is  for  a  section  of  God's  fools.  The  old  con- 
tempt of  it,  under  which  Johnson  writhed,  had  that 
much  truth,  just  as  the  old  pride  which  forbade  the 
author  to  take  material  reward  on  pain  of  social  descent 
had  a  sanction.  I  suppose  that  Byron  was  the  last  poet 
who  refused  money  in  Fleet  Street.  He  relented  and 
grew  rich.  We  who  affirm  the  dignity  of  letters  with 
Johnson,  and  the  right  to  be  fortunate  with  Byron, 
will  best  preserve  a  sane  courage  if  we  remember  that 
in  dismissing  ancient  prejudices  we  have  not  dismissed 
the  essential  character  of  literature,  which  is  a  spiritual 
activity  seeking  to  establish  spiritual  contacts  with  the 
world.     Such  an  affair  can  lead  to  riches,  or  a  com- 


THE   STREET   OF   THE   READY   WRITERS     245 

petence,  only  through  an  affinity  between  the  writer 
and  a  large  body  of  readers.  If  that  does  not  exist  he 
may  be  able  to  create  it  by  deflection  and  surrender. 
Whether  that  is  justified  is  a  tragic  question  for  many. 
That  such  surrender  is  often  justified,  that  it  may  be 
free  from  all  baseness,  and  that  it  is  sometimes  enjoined 
by  a  prudence  that  ought  to  prevail,  one  cannot  doubt 
— any  more  than  one  can  doubt  that  the  refusal  to 
submit  will  ennoble  idealists  to  the  end  of  time. 

But  if  the  old  shadows  haunt  the  writer's  path, 
so  do  the  old  joys.  He  may  exclaim  on  his  work, 
with  Hazlitt,  "  What  abortions  are  these  Essays  I 
What  errors,  what  ill-pieced  transitions,  what  crooked 
reasons,  what  lame  conclusions  !  How  little  is  made 
out,  and  that  little  how  ill!"  But  if,  with  Hazlitt, 
he  can  add,  "  Yet  they  are  the  best  I  can  do,"  and 
if  memory  restores  to  him  the  thrill  of  far  intention 
and  the  abandon  of  artistic  purpose,  he  will  not  re- 
frain from  pride  nor  forget  that  he  has  travelled  that 
highway  of  letters  along  which  Milton  and  Johnson 
and  Lamb  have  passed,  as  surely  as  he  who  walks 
to  Finchley  is  on  the  same  road  as  he  who  arrives 
at  York. 


CHAPTER    X 

"STEPPING    WESTWARD'' 

The  Great  Chare— Optical  Illusions— The  Napoleon  Legend— The 
Second-hand  Book  Market — Every  Book  has  its  Buyer — The  Super- 
fluous Book — Georgius  Tertius — The  Nocturnal  Remembrancer — The 
Haymarket — Wordsworth  at  the  Opera— G.  A.  S. — Pierce  Egan — 
Colonel  Panton — The  "  Eidophusikon  " — Snuff  in  excelsis — "  Old 
Nosey  " — Jermyn  Street  and  a  Husband  in  Hiding — Carlyle  in  Regent 
Street — •' Sartor  Resartus"  in  Search  of  a  Publisher — A  *' Dog's-meat 
Tart  of  a  Magazine  "—Talks  at  Eraser's- Edward  FitzGerald — 
Change  for  a  Sovereign— The  High  Street  of  Mayfair— The  Castle 
of  Indolence — Sterne's  Death-bed — Gentleman  Jackson — Park  Lane — 
The  Tragedy  of  Camelford  House — Lydia  White — "Conversation" 
Sharp — *'  Dizzy  always  likes  Lights  " — "  Mr.  Sydney  Smith  is  coming 
Upstairs  " 

THE  spot  where  Dr.  Johnson  thought  he  beheld 
the  full  tide  of  human  existence,  and  whose 
centre  Sir  Robert  Peel  described  as  the  finest 
site  in  Europe,  is  a  Chare  or  Charing,  i.^.,  a  turn  or 
turning.  Charing  Cross,  in  short,  is  the  place  adorned 
with  a  memorial  cross,  at  which  the  Thames  makes  a 
great  turning.  For  it  is  here  that  the  river,  which  has 
flowed  in  a  northerly  direction  from  Vauxhall  and 
under  Westminster  Bridge,  resumes  its  eastward  direc- 
to  the  sea.  This  immense,  unseen  chare  it  is  which 
makes  the  geography  of  central  London  something  of 
a  puzzle  by  setting  many  places  on  the  north  side  of 
the  Thames  south  of  places  on  the  opposite  bank.     I 

have  rarely  been  able,  without  risk  of  personal  damage, 

246 


"STEPPING  WESTWARD"  247 

and  without  the  support  of  a  map,  to  maintain  that  Hyde 
Park  Corner  is  a  shade  south  of  Waterloo  Station. 

It  is  good  that  London's  centre  should  bear  a  name 
of  immemorial  use  and  elemental  origin.  But  the 
place  itself  remains  mysterious.  If  you  wish  to  baffle 
an  old  Londoner,  ask  him  to  direct  you  to  No.  66 
Charing  Cross.  For  Charing  Cross  is  not  a  street,  nor 
does  it  answer  to  any  other  convenient  description. 
It  is  a  small  district,  of  which  probably  not  even  an 
individual  postman  holds  the  clue.  No.  i  is  discover- 
able some  distance  down  Northumberland  Avenue. 
No.  14  may  be  looked  for,  with  a  hope  of  success,  in 
Whitehall.  No.  53  is  in  Spring  Gardens,  and  the 
higher  numbers  are  in  Cockspur  Street.  But  all  are 
in  Charing  Cross. 

Charing,  in  short,  is  still  a  scattered  village,  and 
Trafalgar  Square  is  its  village  green,  with  the  Nelson 
Column  for  its  Maypole.  But  the  place  has  suffered 
two  great  changes  :  its  ancient  cross  was  removed  two 
and  a  half  centuries  ago,  and  Northumberland  House 
disappeared  in  1874.  The  present  cross  in  the  Strand 
forecourt  of  the  railway-station  is  not  fifty  years  old. 
It  was  completed  in  1865,  from  the  design  of  Edward  M. 
Barry,  A.R.A.,  who  based  his  drawings  on  the  very 
imperfect  and  doubtful  records  of  the  original  cross. 
Its  height  from  the  ground  to  the  gilt  copper  cross  on 
its  summit  is  about  70  feet.  The  eight  crowned  statues 
in  the  upper  story  are  all  representations  of  Queen 
Eleanor,  and  the  shields  lower  down  are  copied  from 
the  Eleanor  crosses  at  Northampton,  Waltham,  and 
Westminster,  and  are  full  of  interest.  One  of  them  is 
the  shield  of  Ponthieu. 

The  old  cross  stood  on  the  ground  now  occupied 
by  the  equestrian  statue  of  Charles  I.  This  was  the 
first  equestrian  statue  ever  seen  in  England.     Cast  in 


248  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

1633  ^I'oni  the  design  of  Hubert  le  Soeur,  it  was 
buried  during  the  Revolution,  to  be  re-erected  here 
in  1674.  The  King's  original  sword  and  straps  have 
had  to  be  replaced.  On  the  night  of  13  April,  1810, 
these  accoutrements  fell  from  the  statue.  They  are 
said  to  have  been  picked  up  by  a  porter  of  the  old 
Golden  Cross  Hotel,  named  Moxam,  and  given  into 
the  charge  of  Mr.  Eyre,  a  neighbouring  trunk-maker, 
by  whom  they  were  made  over  to  the  Board  of  Green 
Cloth,  and  were  then  replaced.  Finally,  they  were 
stolen  from  the  statue  either  in  1844,  when  Queen 
Victoria  was  on  her  way  to  open  the  Royal  Exchange, 
or  in  the  Coronation  crush  of  1838.  Both  statements 
are  made. 

This  statue,  and  the  lion  on  Northumberland  House, 
have  afforded  examples  of  the  ease  with  which  the 
human  mind  may  be  misled.  It  has  been  stated  that 
Le  Soeur  blew  out  his  brains  on  discovering  that,  with 
all  his  striving  after  a  masterpiece,  he  had  forgotten  to 
give  the  King's  horse  a  saddle-girth.  Believing  the 
story,  Londoners  do  not  perceive  that  the  saddle- 
girth  is  there.  Yet  forty  years  ago  they  were  able 
to  see  the  Percy  lion  wag  its  tail  on  Northumberland 
House,  when  they  had  been  told  to  expect  the 
phenomenon. 

Another  myth,  or  historical  doubt,  has  its  seat  in 
this  region,  and  has  been  discussed  with  some  warmth. 
I  refer  to  Napoleon's  supposed  secret  visit  to  London, 
in  1791  or  1792,  and  his  taciturn  appearances  at  the 
Northumberland  Cofifee-house,  opposite  Northumber- 
land House.  A  recent  newspaper  correspondence  was 
enriched  by  an  indirect  opinion  from  Lord  Rosebery, 
and  an  interesting  letter  from  the  Right  Honourable 
John  Burns.  Lord  Rosebery  declared  that  he  had 
never  heard  of  the  rumour.    Mr.  Burns,  on  the  other 


"STEPPING  WESTWARD"  249 

hand,  showed  that  the  story  was  quoted  before 
1820. 

The  usual,  but  very  insufficient,  authority  for  the 
story  that  Napoleon  lodged  in  a  house  in  George 
Street,  near  the  Adelphi,  is  John  Timbs's  ^^  Romance 
of  London,"  published  in  1865,  where  we  read:  ^'It 
is  not  generally  known  that  the  great  Napoleon 
Bonaparte  lodged  in  a  house  in  George  Street,  a 
thoroughfare  preserving  the  Duke's  Christian  name 
(i.e.,  the  name  of  George  Villiers,  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham, from  whom  Villiers  Street  also  takes  its  name), 
which  extends  from  Duke  Street  to  the  Embankment. 
Old  Mr.  Mathews,  the  bookseller  of  the  Strand,  used 
to  relate  that  he  remembered  the  Corsican  ogre 
residing  here  for  five  weeks  in  1791  or  1792,  and 
that  he  occasionally  took  his  cup  of  chocolate  at  the 
Northumberland  Coffee-house,  opposite  Northumber- 
land House  :  there  he  read  much,  and  preserved  a 
provoking  taciturnity  towards  the  frequenters  of  the 
coffee-room;  though  his  manner  was  stern,  his  deport- 
ment was  that  of  a  gentleman."  George  Street  is  now 
merged  in  York  Buildings,  but  the  street  practically 
disappeared  when  the  Embankment  was  formed. 
And  what  of  Mr.  Mathews  ?  Mr.  James  Mathews 
died  on  19  September,  1804,  aged  sixty-two,  after  a 
career  as  **  a  very  respectable  bookseller  and  vendor  of 
medicines  in  the  Strand,  and  father  of  Mr.  Mathews 
of  Drury  Lane  Theatre."  Timbs  being  then  only  three 
years  old,  could  not  have  heard  the  bookseller  tell  his 
story.  Whence  did  he  derive  it  ?  It  is  suggested  that 
he  took  it  from  a  communication  to  the  "Birmingham 
Journal,"  made  so  late  as  1855  by  one  G.  Batson,  who 
adduced  other  local  authorities  for  the  story  : — 

"Mr.  J.  Coleman,  of  the  Strand,  who  is  now  104 
years  of  age,  and  whose  portrait  and  biographical  sketch 


2SO  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

appeared  in  the  *  Illustrated  London  News/  February, 
1850,  and  who  knew  perfectly  well  M.  Bonaparte,  who, 
while  he  lived  in  London,  which  was  for  five  weeks 
in  1791  or  1792,  lodged  at  a  house  in  George  Street, 
Strand,  and  whose  chief  occupation  appeared  to  be  in 
taking  pedestrian  exercise  in  the  streets  of  London. 
Hence  his  marvellous  knowledge  of  the  great 
metropolis,  which  used  to  astonish  any  Englishmen 
of  distinction  who  were  not  aware  of  this  visit.  I 
have  also  heard  Mr.  Matthews  (s/c),  the  grandfather 
of  the  celebrated  comedian,  Mr.  Thomas  Goldsmith, 
of  the  Strand,  Mr.  Graves,  Mr.  Drury,  and  my  father ; 
all  of  whom  were  tradesmen  in  the  Strand  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  George  Street,  speak  of  this 
visit."  This  tends  to  show  that  there  had  been  a 
firm  tradition  of  Napoleon's  visit  in  the  Strand  neigh- 
bourhood. 

Mr.  Burns,  however,  drew  attention  to  the  fact  that 
in  Christopher  Kelly's  once  well-known  work,  *'  Kelly's 
Wars,"  published  as  early  as  1817,  this  passage  occurs: 
"As  it  has  been  frequently  asserted  and  as  often 
denied,  that  Bonaparte  once  came  to  England  to 
solicit  Government  for  a  Commission  in  the  British 
Army,  it  may  be  proper  to  state  that  he  was  in 
England,  but  the  object  of  his  appearance  here  is 
not  known.  He  lodged  at  a  house  in  the  Adelphi, 
in  the  Strand,  and  remained  in  London  but  a  short 
time.  This  information  was  obtained  from  General 
Miranda,  who  asserts  that  he  visited  him  in  England 
at  the  time.  It  is  probable  that  the  period  when 
Bonaparte  was  here  was  about  the  middle  of  the 
year  1793." 

Against  this  record  three  objections  are  made, 
(i)  That  Kelly  is  an  untrustworthy  writer;  (2)  that 
Napoleon's   movements  at  the  period  of  his  alleged 


"STEPPING  WESTWARD"  251 

visit  can  be  traced  from  day  to  day,  and  that  they 
negative  the  story ;  (3)  that  Napoleon  never  referred 
to  such  a  visit  in  his  reported  conversations.  Un- 
doubtedly it  is  strange  that,  if  Napoleon  had  paid 
this  visit  to  London,  he  should  not  have  mentioned 
it  to  the  many  persons  to  whom  he  poured  out  his 
memories,  especially  during  his  exile  in  St.  Helena. 
The  legend  cannot  be  taken  seriously,  but  it  is 
interesting,  and  somehow  we  need  it. 

The  ganglionic  importance  of  Charing  Cross  has 
been  increased  within  short  memory  by  the  formation 
of  the  Charing  Cross  Road.  As  the  new  second-hand 
bookselling  centre  of  London,  this  street  was  a 
bleak  exchange  for  Old  Booksellers'  Row.  There 
seemed  to  be  too  much  light  in  it,  and  too  much 
noise,  and  the  district  had  no  bookish  associations, 
unless  one  took  them  from  the  long-vanished  Mews 
Gate  at  Trafalgar  Square  where  honest  Tom  Payne 
was  for  years  the  bookseller  and  companion  in  letters 
of  men  like  Porson,  and  Malone,  and  George  Steven- 
son and  Sir  John  Hawkins,  and  old  Cracherode  of 
the  Museum. 

Time  has  reconciled  most  of  us  to  the  new  haunt, 
which  has  the  merit  of  spaciousness.  The  apparently 
constant  and  equal  supply  of  second-hand  books,  week 
in  and  week  out,  during  years,  gives  one  at  times  a 
sense  of  baffled  wonder.  Where  does  the  arithmetical 
progression  lapse,  or  conceal  itself  ?  Teufelsdrockh 
feared  the  worst,  and  surmised,  "  If  such  supply  of 
printed  paper  should  rise  so  far  as  to  choke  up  the 
highways  and  public  thoroughfares,  new  means  must 
of  necessity  be  had  recourse  to."  But  even  in  the 
Charing  Cross  Road  there  is  room  for  the  motor- 
omnibuses  to  pass,  and  the  enigma  remains. 

There  is,  indeed,  one  circumstance  which  mitigates 


252  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

the  bibliopolic  nightmare.  It  is  that  for  every  volume 
there  is  a  buyer  at  last.  I  remember  that  one  golden 
evening  more  than  ten  years  ago,  when  the  sun  was 
setting  over  Red  Lion  Square  and  shooting  its  last  rays 
directly  down  the  Passage,  which  took  on  its  best 
seventeenth-century  air,  I  talked  with  one  of  the  book- 
sellers on  this  very  subject  of  improbable  sales.  And 
I  made  some  notes  on  our  talk,  which  ran  as  follows : 
"  Can  you,"  I  asked,  "  sell  a  book  like  this  ? "  The 
book  was  a  calf-bound  folio,  ^*  Voyage  de  Corneille 
de  Brun,"  printed  in  Paris  in  1714.  Surely,  I  thought, 
Le  Brun's  sun  set  long  ago  ;  yet  here,  in  the  night  of 
its  uselessness,  in  the  age  of  Nansen  and  Sven  Hedin, 
his  ^'  voyage "  is  hopefully  exposed  for  sale.  ^'  Can 
you,"  I  said,  "  sell  a  book  like  this  ? " 

"  I  sold  another  copy  not  six  months  ago.  Here 
and  there  is  a  man  who  is  interested  in  old  voyages  to 
the  Levant  and  round  about  the  East,  and  who  perhaps 
finds  the  plates  interesting." 

^^But  to  buy  it!  I  could  understand  him  consulting 
such  a  book  at  the  Museum.  It  is  obsolete;  it  is  hardly 
literature  ;  it  is  in  French  ;  it  weighs,  I  think,  sixteen 
pounds ;  and  you  find  that  a  man  will  come  and 
give  you  coin  of  the  realm  for  it  and  take  it  away?" 

''I  do." 

"  Here  is  *  Dryden's  Fables '  in  folio,  magnificently 
printed,  but  surely  difficult  to  sell  now  ?  " 

**  I  shall  sell  it.  Indeed  it  is  partly  sold  already,  for 
it  has  lost  the  plates." 

"Well,  now,  you  won't  say  that  you  can  easily  sell 
these  volumes  that  your  kitten  is  playing  on  :  Sir  Paul 
Rycaut's  'The  Turkish  History,'  1687  ?  ^  see  it  is  full 
of  Othmans  and  Amuraths  and  Bajazets — gorgeous  old 
fellows,  no  doubt ;  but  can  you  sell  such  a  book  to  a 
passer-by  ? " 


"STEPPING  WESTWARD"  253 

"  Not  easily  ;  but  it  will  go." 

"  Echard's  'History  of  England/  in  three  volumes ?" 

''  That  will  not  sell  easily." 

"RoHin's  'Ancient  History/  in  seven  volumes  ?" 

''  Yes  ;  to  a  few  libraries." 

*'  Newton's  *  Principia '  ?  " 

"Yes." 

''  Now,  I  put  it  to  you  that  you  cannot  sell  'Zimmer- 
man on  Solitude.' " 

"  But  I  can." 

"Or 'Sturm's '." 

" '  Reflections.'  I  own  I  am  surprised  when  I  sell 
that  book,  but  I  am  asked  for  it,  and  also  for  Hervey's 
'  Meditations  Among  the  Tombs.' " 

"  What  are  those  books  ? " 

"Ah,  that  is  a  French  Dictionary  of  Medical  Science, 
published  in  Paris  in  181 2.  I  have  the  complete  set 
in  sixty  volumes,  all  beautifully  bound  in  calf  1 " 

"  You  can  sell  sixty  volumes  of  an  obsolete  French 
medical  work,  all  beautifully  bound  in  calf,  to  a 
Londoner  in  Red  Lion  Passage  to-day  ? " 

"  I  bought  it  entirely  with  that  idea.'* 

"  It  seems  that  as  long  as  a  book  is  a  book  it  will  sell 
at  some  price  to  some  person." 

"That  is  so." 

Consequently  one  can  form  a  library  in  the  Charing 
Cross  Road  in  the  unshaken  faith  that  one  can  sell 
it  there  too.  And  this  is  the  strength  of  the  second- 
hand book  market,  and  the  stay  of  book-lovers.  If 
the  purchase  of  a  book  meant  irrevocable  possession, 
literature  would  soon  perish  from  fatty  degeneration 
of  libraries.  For  the  necessity  to  get  rid  of  books 
is  moral  and  absolute.  Many  books  which  are  highly 
useful,  highly  convenient,  and  profitable,  are  seen  at 
last  to  be  only  money-changers  in  our  temple.     They 


254  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

cannot  all  have  "  honest  backs."  Charles  Lamb,  whom 
bookmen  rightly  canonize,  knew  this,  and  was  en- 
tirely free  from  bookish  superstitions  or  false  delicacies. 
He  did  not  value,  for  instance,  inscribed  presentation 
copies  of  books  from  his  intimate  friends,  even  when 
these  were  men  of  literary  distinction  and  education. 
At  Enfield  he  threw  such  books  out  of  his  window. 
Thomas  Westwood,  who  added  many  of  these  mis- 
siles to  his  shelves,  relates  :  "A  Leigh  Hunt,  for 
instance,  would  come  skimming  to  my  feet  through 
the  branches  of  the  apple-tree  (our  gardens  were 
contiguous) ;  or  a  Bernard  Barton  would  be  rolled 
downstairs  to  me  from  the  library  door.  *  Marcian 
Colonna '  I  remember  finding  on  my  window-sill, 
damp  with  the  night's  fog ;  and  the  '  Plea  of  the 
Midsummer  Fairies '  I  picked  out  of  the  strawberry- 
bed."  When  these  bombardments  were  in  progress, 
Lamb  was  merely  adjusting  his  soul  to  his  books. 

George  the  Third  on  horseback,  Mr.  Dent's  time- 
ball,  models  of  steamships :  these  are  the  common 
objects  of  Cockspur  Street,  that  irregular  bow  of 
houses  and  shops  which  adds  nothing  to  the  symmetry 
of  Trafalgar  Square.  Formerly  Cockspur  Street  was 
haunted  by  Scotchmen  ;  to-day  it  suggests  Liverpool. 
Against  its  plate-glass  windows  on  Sunday  evenings 
you  see  the  gloved  hands  of  London  maidens  tracing 
the  route  to  Winnipeg.  Here  also  the  American,  busy 
with  his  pocket-book,  looks  up  to  see,  cantering  dole- 
fully in  bronze,  the  monarch  from  whom  his  fathers 
took  America. 

Georgius  Tertius  did  not  arrive  there  without 
trouble.  It  was  on  3  August,  1836,  that  the  Duke 
of  Cumberland  drew  back  the  curtains  from  a  statue 
which  brought  its  sculptor  more  praise  than  profit. 
Matthew  Cotes  Wyatt   contracted   to  provide   every- 


•'STEPPING  WESTWARD"  255 

thing  for  ;^4ooo.  Originally  the  statue  was  to  have 
been  placed  at  the  foot  of  Waterloo  Place,  but  it 
was  discovered  that  the  Duke  of  York  (on  the  column) 
would  then  turn  his  back  on  his  Royal  father.  So 
Cockspur  Street  had  the  honour,  and  was  at  first  in- 
clined to  reject  it.  A  firm  of  bankers  thought  that 
an  equestrian  figure  in  the  street  would  be  a  nuisance, 
and  obtained  a  temporary  injunction  against  its  erec- 
tion. The  rule  was  quashed,  and  the  unveiling  took 
place  two  months  later  than  had  been  intended.  At 
the  ceremony  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  praised  the 
design  in  terms  of  contrast :  the  group,  he  said,  had 
the  great  merit  that  it  was  not  supported  by  the  clumsy 
contrivance  of  a  piece  of  rock,  or  by  an  ancillary 
serpent,  and  the  horse  did  not  rest  like  an  opossum 
on  his  tail.  The  following  inscription  was  to  have 
been  cut  on  the  pedestal  : — 

''To  His  Most  Excellent  Majesty  George  the  Third, 
King  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  and  Defender  of 
the  Faith.  A  Monarch  who  was  the  safeguard  of 
Christianity,  without  the  honours  of  a  saint ;  and 
the  conqueror  of  half  the  globe,  without  the  fame 
of  a  hero  ;  who  reigned  amidst  the  wreck  of  empires, 
yet  died  in  the  love  of  his  People ;  when  peace  was 
established  throughout  his  wide  Dominions,  when 
the  literature  and  the  commerce  of  his  country  per- 
vaded the  world,  when  British  valour  was  without 
a  rival,  and  the  British  character  without  a  stain." 
This  derangement  of  epitaphs  was  suppressed — in 
the  interests,  I  suppose,  of  public  cheerfulness. 

In  Cockspur  Street  flourished  George  the  Third's 
intimate  friend  (for  such  he  was  deemed)  and  military 
button-maker,  Christopher  Pinchbeck.  Industrious 
authors  and  journalists  were  indebted  to  him  for 
a  patent  ''nocturnal  remembrancer,"  which  is  dread- 


256  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

fully  described  as  a  series  of  tablets  with  notches 
to  serve  as  guides  for  writing  in  the  dark.  This  in- 
strument was  probably  found  to  be  in  advance  of 
human  nature,  but  it  should  appeal  to  the  relentless 
author  of  "Do  It  Now." 

"  The  Scots  go  generally  to  the  British,"  writes 
Defoe,  when  he  is  enumerating  the  London  coffee- 
houses. The  British  Coffee-house  stood  in  the  middle 
of  Cockspur  Street  on  a  site  which  a  few  years 
ago  was  occupied  by  Mr.  Stanford's  map  warehouse. 
Here  Tobias  Smollett  and  Dr.  Alexander  Carlyle 
were  sitting  when  the  news  of  the  Battle  of  Culloden 
set  all  London  "mafficking"  for  joy.  It  was  an  ill 
night  for  Scotchmen,  but  Carlyle  and  Smollett  left 
the  coffee-house  to  walk  to  Mayfair.  The  crowds 
were  so  rough  that  they  were  glad  to  step  into  a 
quiet  corner  to  put  their  wigs  in  their  pockets  and 
unsheathe  their  swords,  which  they  carried  in  their 
hands  up  the  Haymarket.  Smollett  cautioned  his 
friend  to  hold  his  tongue,  "  for  John  Bull,"  he  said, 
"  is  as  haughty  and  valiant  to-night  as  he  was  abject 
and  cowardly  on  the  black  Wednesday  when  the 
Highlanders  were  at  Derby."  When  Carlyle  next  saw 
Smollett  he  was  shown  the  manuscript  of  the  **  Tears 
of  Scotland." 

Londoners  may  hardly  credit  the  fact  that  such 
a  street  as  the  Haymarket  should  have  been  a  market 
for  hay  and  straw  until  1830 ;  and  yet  after  nearly 
eighty  years  this  street  retains  certain  relics  of  the 
business.  On  its  western  side  two  jobmasters  still 
flourish.  Over  the  way  at  the  corner  of  Orange  Street 
is  a  very  old  saddlery  house,  with  saddlers  working 
in  the  view  of  passers-by.  In  Orange  Street,  Oxenden 
Street,  Whitcomb  Street,  and  St.  Alban's  Place  are 
stables  or  hints  of  stables.   Some  of  these  have  become 


"STEPPING   WESTWARD"  257 

garages.  The  hay  market  extended  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  street,  and  it  is  curious  that  the  cab- 
rank  of  to-day  is  allowed  the  same  large  limits.  A 
little  news-shop,  which  specializes  in  racing  journals, 
suggests,  if  it  does  not  lineally  perpetuate,  the  horsey 
traditions  of  the  Haymarket. 

To-day  the  street  is  dominated  by  theatres,  art-shops, 
and  foreign  restaurants.  It  has  also  a  mission  in  sport- 
ing and  travel  equipments.  Here  you  may  buy  golf- 
sticks,  alpine  axes,  shooting-stools,  driving-gloves, 
knapsacks,  and  even — as  I  lately  noticed — ^^a  fine 
old  pair  of  George  III  duelling  pistols." 

The  dramatic  and  musical  memories  of  the  Hay- 
market  would  set  up  half  a  dozen  authors.  They 
have  already  done  so.  I  pass  these  by,  with  a  salute 
to  the  few  relics  of  the  old  Her  Majesty's  and  its 
arcades — landmarks  of  yesterday's  London.  The  pre- 
sent theatre  is  the  fourth  that  has  been  built  on  a  site 
which  is  associated  with  Handel.  Earlier  still,  Addison 
declared  that  the  noise  of  the  Haymarket  stage  battles 
could  be  heard  at  Charing  Cross. 

To  the  second  Haymarket  opera  house  Wordsworth 
paid  at  least  one  visit,  and  I  pick  this  fact  out  of 
the  immense  and  splendid  annals  of  the  spot  because 
a  vision  of  Wordsworth  in  a  London  theatre  is  rare. 
Next  morning  William  Jerdan,  the  editor,  met  the 
Lake  poet  at  a  breakfast-party,  and  was  so  astonished 
by  the  shrewdness  of  his  criticisms  on  the  singing, 
and  even  on  the  terpsichorean  feats  of  the  evening, 
that  he  asked  the  poet  to  contribute  to  the  "  Literary 
Gazette  "  impressions  of  the  continental  cities  whither 
he  was  then  bound.  Wordsworth  declined,  but  Jerdan's 
proprietor  desired  him  to  renew  his  request  in  case 
"  Mr.  Wordsworth  only  wanted  a  little  poetical  press- 
ing."    However,  Jerdan  did  not  succeed  in  establish- 


258  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

ing  Wordsworth  as  the  father  of  the  descriptive  article. 
The  poet  repHed,  "  Periodical  writing,  in  order  to 
shine,  must  be  ambitious  ;  and  this  style  is,  I  think, 
in  the  record  of  tours  and  travels,  intolerable,  or 
at  any  rate  the  worst  can  be  chosen."  He  added, 
**  My  model  would  be  Gray's  Letters  and  Journal,  if 
I  could  muster  courage  and  set  seriously  about  any- 
thing of  the  kind  ;  but  I  suspect  Gray  himself  would 
be  found  flat  in  these  days."  The  courted  writer  is 
not  always  so  candid  and  sagacious. 

A  descriptive  writer  who  knew  better  than  to  take 
Gray  for  his  model,  or   to   be   "flat"   on  any  other 
theory  of  travel-talk,  was  George  Augustus  Sala  ;  and 
Sala  may  be  said  to  have  started  in  his  career    from 
the  Haymarket.     For  it  was  hereabouts  that  he  con- 
ceived his  final  distaste  for  that  "  real  life  in  London  " 
of  which  the  Haymarket  was   long  the  vortex.      His 
conversion  took  place  at  an  early  hour  of  the  morning 
and  rose  out  of  a  dispute   with    Mr.  Jehoshaphat,  a 
Panton    Street    restaurateur,   concerning   a   bottle   of 
champagne    for    which    fifteen    shillings    had     been 
charged.     In  the  course  of  a  difficult  argument  Sala 
found  himself  on  the  floor,  where  he  received  a  well- 
aimed  blow  from  Mr.  Jehoshaphat's  richly  bejewelled 
fist.     This  was  the  origin  of  that  damaged  nose  which 
in  after  years  became  a  landmark  of  Fleet  Street.    The 
wound  was  sewn  up  at  Charing  Cross  Hospital.     Sala 
bore   no   grudge   to    Mr.  Jehoshaphat,  who,  he  said, 
had  done  him  a  lasting  service  ;  for  while  his  nose 
was  reconstituting  itself   it   was   borne  in  upon  him 
that  the  time  was  come  for  him  to  say  good-bye  to 
Bohemia.     He   married    forthwith,   and   began   those 
Gargantuan  studies  in  books,  sauces,  dress,  derivations, 
and    intellectual    bric-^-brac    which    made    him    the 
''G.A.S."  of  a  myriad  readers. 


"STEPPING   WESTWARD"  259 

It  was  fitting,  therefore,  that  near  the  Haymarket 
Sala  should  have  seen,  a  few  years  before  the  Panton 
Street  massacre,  the  worn-out  creator  of  Jerry  Hawthorn 
and  Corinthian  Tom.  For  it  was  by  the  night-scenes 
of  the  Haymarket  that  ParHament  was  induced,  in 
1872,  to  pass  the  Act  that  made  half-past  twelve  the 
closing  hour  for  licensed  premises  in  London.  That 
Act  turned  down  the  lights  on  the  Tom  and  Jerry 
theory  of  London  life.  Sala  relates  that  in  1859,  or 
thereabouts,  he  met  Pierce  Egan  in  the  coffee-room 
of  a  tavern  in  Rupert  Street.  His  portrait  of  the 
old  man  is  masterly,  and  I  will  not  curtail  it. 

**  Pierce  had  long  since  fallen  into  the  sere  and 
yellow  leaf,  and  was  well-stricken  in  the  vale  of  years  ; 
in  fact,  he  was  seventy-seven  when  I  saw  him,  and  the 
year  of  my  meeting  with  him  was  the  last  in  his  life. 
A  little  wearish  old  man,  somewhat  melancholy  by 
nature,  averse  to  company  in  his  latter  days,  and  much 
given  to  solitariness.  Such  a  one  was  Democritus,  as 
Burton,  in  *The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,'  described 
the  philosopher  of  Abdera,  from  the  word-picture  left 
by  Hippocrates.  Pierce  Egan,  as  I  remember  him, 
had  a  rather  quavering  voice,  and  a  shrinking,  shuffling 
manner,  as  though  the  poor  old  gentleman  had  found 
the  burden  of  his  life  a  great  misery  to  him,  and  was 
yearning  to  shake  it  off. 

^'  I  had  drunk  deep  of  his  books  from  my  earliest 
boyhood.  1  had  copied,  in  pen-and-ink,  scores  of  the 
etchings  made  by  George  and  Robert  Cruikshank  for 
the  illustration  of  '  Life  in  London,'  and  I  could  not 
help  asking  myself,  mentally,  and  with  mournful 
dismay,  whether  this  withered  patriarch  could  be  the 
renowned  Pierce  Egan  whose  proficiency  in  slang 
had  been  praised  in  *  Blackwood's  Magazine/  who 
had    been    the    life    and    soul    of     several    sporting 


26o  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

'  free-and-easies/  and  a  referee  at  a  hundred  prize« 
fights. 

^^  Still,  you  will  remember  that  which  Burton  says 
of  the  occasional  relaxation  of  Democritus  :  Howsoever 
it  was,  there  he  lived  at  last  in  a  garden  in  the  suburbs, 
wholly  betaking  himself  to  his  studies  and  a  private  life, 
saving  that  sometimes  he  would  walk  down  to  the  haven, 
and  laugh  heartily  at  such  variety  of  ridiculous  objects 
which  there  he  saw.  So  it  was  with  Pierce  Egan  the 
Elder.  I  forget  whether  he  smoked  ;  but  Holt  and  I 
soon  managed  to  wreathe  his  old  head  with  garlands 
of  cerulean  vapour,  not  from  cigars,  if  you  please,  but 
from  good  honest  '  yards  of  clay '  of  the  Broseley 
pattern  ;  and  then,  after  a  few  glasses  of  rum  punch, 
the  cockles  of  Pierce's  heart  were  warmed  ;  the  old 
man  became  eloquent  ;  he  began  to  talk  of  Tom 
Spring,  and  Tom  Belcher,  and  Bob  Gregson,  and 
other  famous  gladiators  of  the  bygone ;  he  told  us  of 
Jack  Mitton  and  of  Gully,  the  pugilist,  who  retired 
from  the  prize-ring  to  become  eventually  a  Member  of 
Parliament.  He  descanted  on  the  cock-fighting,  the 
bull-baiting,  the  badger-drawing,  the  ratting,  and  the 
dog-and-duck  fighting  he  had  seen  in  the  brave  days 
of  old  ;  he  had  known  Shaw  the  Lifeguardsman,  he 
had  played  billiards  with  Jack  Thurtell  ;  he  was  the 
abstract  and  chronicle  of  the  manners  of  an  age  which 
had  vanished,  and  which,  it  is  most  devoutly  to  be 
hoped,  will  never  repeat  itself  on  this  sublunary  sphere 
again." 

Small  though  it  is,  Panton  Street  stands  in  a  certain 
fatherly  relation  to  many  of  the  streets  around  it. 
Colonel  Panton  was  a  notorious  gambler  of  the 
Restoration  period.  One  night,  at  Piccadilly  Hall,  he 
won  an  enormous  sum,  and,  never  touching  cards  or 
dice   again,  lived  in  discreet   luxury  until   his  death 


''STEPPING   WESTWARD"  261 

in  1681.  He  built  Panton  Street,  and  it  is  an  interest- 
ing fact  that  Sir  Christopher  Wren,  as  Surveyor- 
General,  reported  to  Charles  II  on  Panton's  building 
projects,  which  he  said  would  be  useful  to  the  public, 
*'  especially  by  opening  a  new  street  from  the  Hay- 
market  into  Leicester  Fields."  Panton  was  allowed, 
therefore,  to  proceed  with  his  plans,  and  he  left  his 
impress  on  the  whole  neighbourhood.  Panton  Square, 
as  well  as  Panton  Street,  was  named  after  him ;  and 
his  daughter  married  Henry,  fifth  Lord  Arundel  of 
Wardour,  from  whom  Wardour  Street  and  Arundel 
Street  were  named. 

The  little  square  without  a  name  into  which  Arundel 
Street  leads,  as  into  a  blind  alley,  was  formerly  known 
as  Panton  Square.  Here,  where  a  few  private  hotels 
monopolize  the  silence  of  a  small  lagoon  in  the  traffic 
of  Coventry  Street,  the  *'  Eidophusikon  "  devised  by 
Philip  de  Loutherbourg,  R.A.,  was  deemed  to  be 
something  more  than  a  beautiful  peep-show.  When, 
after  Garrick's  day,  there  was  talk  of  reducing  his 
salary  at  Drury  Lane,  where  he  was  the  principal 
scene-painter,  De  Loutherbourg  resigned  his  post  and 
planned  his  ^'  Eidophusikon "  as  a  public  spectacle. 
All  London  came  to  Panton  Square  to  see  this  delight- 
ful show  in  which,  by  a  combination  of  painted 
canvas  with  new  and  ingenious  methods  of  lighting, 
and  clever  imitations  of  natural  sounds,  some  remark- 
able effects  were  produced. 

The  "Eidophusikon,"  indeed,  attracted  painters  as 
well  as  the  public.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  came  round 
from  Leicester  Square,  and  night  after  night  Gains- 
borough walked  up  the  Haymarket  from  Schomberg 
House  to  obtain  a  good  seat.  Gainsborough,  who 
was  always  ready  to  be  captivated  by  irregular  and 
experimental  art  (witness  his  sponge  and  sugar-tongs 


262  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

exploits  at  Bath)  could  talk  of  nothing  but  the 
''  Eidophusikon."  The  stage  on  which  the  brilliant 
Alsatian  scene-painter  worked  was  little  more  than  six 
feet  wide,  yet  within  that  space  he  was  able  to  convey 
the  impression  of  many  miles  of  receding  and 
mysterious  country.  The  first  tableau  represented  the 
view  from  One  Tree  Hill,  in  Greenwich  Park,  a  view 
extending  over  river  and  town  to  the  heights  of  High- 
gate  and  Harrow.  On  this  scene  De  Loutherbourg 
threw  the  effects  of  daybreak  and  high  noon.  A 
contemporary  writer  describes  the  various  scenes.  A 
storm  at  sea,  with  the  loss  of  an  Indiaman,  was  repre- 
sented with  great  effect  :  **  I  can  never  forget  the  awful 
impression  that  was  excited  by  his  ingenious  con- 
trivance to  produce  the  effect  of  the  firing  of  a  signal 
of  distress  in  his  sea-storm.  That  appalling  sound 
which  he  that  had  been  exposed  to  the  terrors  of 
raging  tempest  could  not  listen  to,  even  in  this  mimic 
scene,  without  being  reminded  of  the  heart-sickening 
answer,  which  sympathetic  danger  had  reluctantly 
poured  forth  from  his  own  loud  gun — a  hoarse  sound 
to  the  howling  wind,  that  proclaimed  ^  I,  too,  holy 
Heaven  1  need  that  succour  I  fain  would  lend  1 '  " 

De  Loutherbourg's  devices  for  imitating  natural 
sounds  might  not  surprise  a  stage-manager  of  to-day, 
but  they  were  his  own.  The  boom  of  the  signal-gun 
cost  him  endless  experiment,  until  he  found  that  a 
sponge  on  a  whalebone  spring,  beating  against  a  kind 
of  drum  made  of  parchment,  produced  both  the  boom 
and  the  dull  dying  echoes  from  cloud  to  cloud.  The 
final  scene  in  the  "  Eidophusikon"  was  a  lurid  realiza- 
tion of  Milton's  Satan  on  the  burning  lake.  An 
impression  of  immense  and  forlorn  distance  was 
obtained,  and  amid  the  peals  of  thunder  **an  expert 
assistant  swept  his  thumb  over  the  surface  of  a  tam- 


"STEPPING   WESTWARD"  263 

bourine,  which  produced  a  variety  of  groans  that 
struck  the  imagination  as  issuing  from  infernal 
spirits." 

On  the  east  side  of  the  street,  between  Coventry- 
Street  and  Panton  Street,  stands  one  of  the  oldest 
shops  in  London.  At  Fribourg  and  Treyer's  snuff- 
shop,  with  its  twin  bow-windows,  it  is  permissible  to 
believe  that  Addison  and  Pope  and  Gay  and  Prior 
filled  their  snuff-boxes  with  "  best  Spanish."  The  firm 
supplied  George  III  with  snuff  until  he  withdrew 
his  custom  on  learning  that  Pitt  dealt  there  too. 
George  IV's  "cellar  of  snuff"  and  Lord  Petersham's 
"  collection  of  snuff "  were  in  turn  acquired  by 
Fribourg  and  Treyer,  and  in  the  latter  instance  it  is  on 
record  that  the  proprietors  and  their  assistants  were 
weighing  the  purchase  for  three  days.  It  is  a  curious 
circumstance  that  the  original  of  that  vague  and  often 
re-incarnated  character,  "  Old  Nosey,"  died  in  this 
snuff-shop.  The  "  Gentleman's  Magazine"  of  January, 
1783,  has  this  obituary  notice  :  "  At  Fribourg's  snuff- 
shop  in  the  Haymarket,  Mr.  Cervetto,  father  to  the 
celebrated  violoncello  performer  of  that  name." 
Cervetto  was  more  than  102  years  old  when  he  paid 
his  last  visit  to  Fribourg's.  He  had  played  in  the 
Drury  Lane  orchestra  during  Garrick's  last  years  and 
was  celebrated  for  his  big  nose.  At  Drury  Lane 
Theatre  he  was  constantly  hailed  from  the  gallery  as 
"  Nosey,"  and  the  cry  survived  the  man  as  a  gallery  tag 
in  most  theatres. 

A  curious  story  is  told  of  Cervetto  and  his  nickname. 
During  a  performance  at  Drury  Lane  he  was  hit  by  an 
apple  thrown  at  him  from  the  gallery.  He  immedi- 
ately climbed  to  the  gallery  with  one  of  the  sentinels 
who  then  attended  the  theatre,  and  proceeded  with 
him  to  the  upper  gallery,  where,  with  his  assistance,  he 


264  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

seized  the  offender  by  the  collar  and  sent  him  to  the 
public-office  in  Bow  Street,  where  he  was  convicted  of 
the  assault,  and  ordered  to  prison  for  a  few  days. 
Then  Cervetto  relented,  and  next  day  went  to  Sir  John 
Fielding,  and  not  only  obtained  the  man's  discharge 
but  gave  him  money  for  the  loss  of  time  and  labour 
which  he  had  suffered.  A  few  months  later,  Mr. 
Cervetto  was  advised  to  take  horseback  exercise.  One 
day  when  riding  in  Oxford  Street  his  horse  became 
involved  in  a  huge  crowd  that  was  following  the  cart 
in  which  culprits  were  then  conveyed  to  be  executed 
at  Tyburn.  Turning  his  head  to  look  at  the  male- 
factor, who  was  the  only  prisoner,  he  recognized  the 
man  who  had  assaulted  him  at  the  theatre  and  to 
whom  he  had  shown  kindness.  The  man  recognized 
Cervetto,  and  (this  is  not  a  nursery  story)  motioned,  as 
well  as  his  chains  would  allow  him,  to  indicate  that  he 
recollected  him  as  "  Nosey."  This  insult,  under  such 
circumstances,  sent  Cevetto  home  for  the  day  in  a  state 
of  poignant  disgust. 

The  most  important  offshoot  of  the  Haymarket  is 
Jermyn  Street,  that  elect  place  of  family  hotels,  fish- 
and  poultry-shops,  tailoring  ateliers,  gunsmiths,  and 
fossils.  Its  associations  with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Sydney 
Smith,  Tom  Moore,  and  Dr.  John  Hunter  are  all 
familiar.  Two  poets,  also,  of  very  different  achieve- 
ment, but  not  unlike  each  other  in  some  respects, 
lodged  in  Jermyn  Street — Gray  and  Shenstone.  An 
address  in  Jermyn  Street  is  very  desirable  to-day, 
but  it  costs  more  than  the  half-guinea  a  week  which 
the  poet  of  the  "  Elegy "  was  willing  to  pay  for  a 
first-floor  front  room.  One  of  the  oddest  of  London 
stories  is  told  of  Jermyn  Street  by  Dr.  William  King. 
Here,  in  the  fourth  year  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  there 
was  living  in  Jermyn  Street  a  certain  Mr.  Howe.     He 


"STEPPING   WESTWARD"  265 

enjoyed  the  comfortable   income   of   ;£8oo  a  year — 
and   he   had   married   a   lady  who   came  of   a   good 
West  Country  family  (her  maiden  name  was  Mallet), 
and  who  had  many  graces  of  person  and  character. 
The  Howes  had  two  children  and  were  happy.     One 
morning,  seven  or  eight  years  after  his  marriage,  Mr. 
Howe  rose  before  his  usual  time,  and  told  his  wife 
that  he  had  pressing  business  in  the  City.     He  left 
the  house,  and  at  midday  Mrs.  Howe  was  surprised 
to  receive  a  note  from  her  husband,  telling  her  that 
he  must  start  at  once  for  Holland  on  business,  and 
that   he  might  be   absent   three  weeks   or   a  month. 
From   that  hour  Mrs.  Howe  heard  no   more  of  her 
husband   for   seventeen   years.     The   evening   before 
he  returned,  Mrs.  Howe,  still  buxom,  but  with  threads 
of  silver  in  her  hair,  was  entertaining  a  few  friends 
and  relations  to  supper,  among  them  her  brother-in- 
law,  a   worthy  physician   named   Dr.    Rose.     In   the 
midst  of  their  festivity  a  note,  without  any  signature, 
was   handed   to    Mrs.    Howe,   who,   after   reading   it, 
threw    it   to    Dr.    Rose,   saying   merrily,    "  You    see, 
brother,  old   as   I    am,   I    have  got   a  gallant."     The 
note    conveyed   a   request   to    Mrs.    Howe    that   she 
would  meet  the  writer  the  next  evening  in  Birdcage 
Walk.     Dr.    Rose,    meanwhile,   had    scrutinized    the 
message    carefully,   and   he   declared   that   it   was   in 
Mr.     Howe's    handwriting.      Mrs.     Howe     promptly 
fainted.     On    her    recovery,    which    was    speedy,    it 
was   agreed  that   they  should  all  accompany  her  on 
the   next    evening    to    Birdcage    Walk.      The   party 
went     at     the    appointed    time,    and    after     a     few 
minutes'     waiting,     Mr.     Howe    calmly    walked    up 
and  kissed  his  wife.     After   some   conversation  with 
his  friends,  he  escorted  her  home,  and  thenceforward 
they  lived  together  as  peaceably  and  happily  as  in  the 


266  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

first  years  of  their  marriage.  Mr.  Howe  never  gave 
a  reason  for  his  extraordinary  conduct,  but  he  made 
no  secret  of  his  movements  and  actions. 

The  story  he  told  affords  a  wonderful  instance  of 
the  facilities  which  London  afforded,  even  two  hundred 
years  ago,  to  a  man  who  wished  to  hide  himself  from  his 
fellows.  When  he  bade  adieu  to  his  wife  in  Jermyn 
Street,  Mr.  Howe  had  not  voyaged  to  Holland,  nor  had 
he  then  or  afterwards  left  London.  He  had  merely 
put  on  a  black  wig  (he  was  a  fair  man)  and  had 
gone  to  live  in  a  quiet  street  in  Westminster.  After 
his  disappearance  Mrs.  Howe  imagined  that,  unknown 
to  herself,  he  might  have  contracted  some  heavy 
debts ;  consequently  for  some  weeks  she  went  in 
fear  of  duns  and  bailiffs.  But  nothing  happened,  and 
when  all  inquiries  were  exhausted  Mrs.  Howe  wisely 
reconciled  herself  to  her  loneliness.  Before  very 
long  it  became  necessary  for  her  to  obtain  a  settle- 
ment of  her  husband's  affairs,  in  order  that  she  might 
have  the  means  of  living.  She  accordingly  applied 
for  a  special  Act  of  Parliament,  and  this  was 
granted.  Mr.  Howe,  in  his  Westminster  lodging, 
allowed  the  Bill  to  go  through,  and  enjoyed  reading 
of  its  progress  in  the  '' Gazettes"  at  a  little  coffee- 
house. Ten  years  passed,  and  during  that  period 
Mrs.  Howe's  two  children  died.  Wishing  to  reduce 
her  expenditure,  she  removed  from  her  house  in 
Jermyn  Street  to  a  smaller  one  in  Brewer  Street, 
Golden  Square,  her  movements  being  followed  with 
watchful  interest  by  her  husband,  who  began  more 
and  more  to  appreciate  the  luxury  of  examining  his 
wife,  as  it  were,  through  a  telescope.  Opposite  to 
the  house  in  Brewer  Street  a  corn-chandler,  named 
Salt,  had  his  shop.  Mr.  Howe  scraped  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Salt,  and  became  so  intimate  with  him  that 


"STEPPING   WESTWARD"  267 

he  dined  at  his  house  two  or  three  times  a  week. 
On  these  occasions  it  was  his  pleasure  to  stand  at 
the  window  and  look  across  the  way  into  his  wife's 
drawing-room,  where  he  watched  her  little  comings 
and  goings.  He  doubtless  had  his  own  reasons 
for  his^  eccentric  behaviour,  but  he  never  explained 
them,  and  probably  enough  his  escapade  was  merely 
a  laborious  whim  ;  there  is  no  measuring  the  fond- 
ness of  man  for  his  own  joke,  especially  when,  as 
in  this  case,  it  was  cumulative.  Once  settled  in  his 
little  Westminster  room,  Mr.  Howe  may  have  found 
that  the  interest  of  the  experiment  he  was  making 
was  not  to  be  exhausted  in  a  week,  in  a  month,  or 
even  in  a  year.  After  all,  he  might  argue,  he  was 
doing  a  very  curious  thing ;  he  had  disappeared 
round  the  corner  of  Jermyn  Street  to  combine  the 
privileges  of  the  living  and  the  dead. 

The  Londoner  associates  Regent  Street  with  trade, 
not  literature.  So,  for  that  matter,  and  with  grim 
patience,  did  Thomas  Carlyle  when  he  was  having 
his  difficult  dealings  with  James  Fraser  at  No.  215, 
between  Maddox  Street  and  Conduit  Street.  Of  the 
thousands  who  perambulate  Regent  Street  on  a 
summer  afternoon  how  many  think  of  it  as  the 
publishing  birthplace  of  *'  Sartor  Resartus "  ?  Yet 
it  was  hither,  to  No.  215,  that  Carlyle  walked  dole- 
fully on  an  August  day  in  1831,  like  a  parent  per- 
plexed to  know  how  to  place  his  child  in  the  world 
— Teufelsdrockh  his  unlucky  name.  *'  It  is  a  work 
of  genius,  dear,"  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  said  to  him,  with 
no  wifely  flattery,  but  with  the  insight  of  a  mind 
almost  as  original  as  his  own.  And  it  was  in  a  length 
of  Mrs.  Carlyle's  work-box  tape  that  the  manuscript 
had  gone  to  Murray.  A  week  later  Carlyle  had  called 
at  Albemarle  Street,  found  the  manuscript  untouched, 


268  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

but  adorned  with  a  letter  of  excuse.  "  I  took  it  with 
a  silent  fury  and  walked  off."  He  walked  to  Regent 
Street,  where  he  dropped  in  on  James  Fraser,  the 
bookseller  and  publisher  of  ^'  Eraser's  Magazine." 
The  manuscript  was  referred  to,  and  after  much 
"hithering  and  thithering  about  the  black  state  of 
trade "  there  emerged  from  honest  James's  talk  the 
blighting  proposal  that  Carlyle  should  pay  him  ;£i5o 
sterling  to  launch  the  book. 

A  friend  advised  Carlyle  to  wait  a  little  before  accept- 
ing this  offer,  and  he  answered  that  he  proposed  to 
wait  till  the  end  of  eternity.  Out  again  on  the  pave- 
ments of  Regent  Street  wandered  the  author  with  his 
manuscript  tied  with  Jeannie's  tape — Jeannie  being 
just  then  on  a  visit  to  Craigenputtock,  where  she 
lovingly  waited  for  good  news  of  the  *'  work  of  genius." 
He  strode  through  the  streets  carrying  Teufelsdrockh 
in  his  hand.  No  need  to  tell  in  detail  of  the  visit  to 
Longman's  that  same  afternoon,  of  Murray's  later  shilly- 
shallying, and  of  the  visit  to  Colburn  and  Bentley's, 
where  "a  muddy  man  uttered  the  common  cant  of 
compliments."  An  interesting  relic  of  these  adven- 
tures will  be  found  in  the  "Testimonies  of  Authors" 
printed  at  the  end  of  "  Sartor."  The  first  of  them, 
that  of  "Highest  Class  Booksellers'  Taster,"  is  neither 
more  nor  less  than  the  report  of  Murray's  reader, 
which  finally  determined  the  fate  of  the  book  in 
Albemarle  Street. 

In  the  end  it  turned  out  that  the  walk  to  Regent 
Street  on  that  August  afternoon  had  been  sufficiently 
momentous,  for  in  1833  "  Sartor"  began  its  piecemeal 
course  in  what  Carlyle,  with  saturnine  humour,  called 
Eraser's  "  dog's-meat  tart  of  a  magazine." 

The  unpopularity  of  "Sartor"  is  an  old  story. 
People  thought  Carlyle  a  madman,  Fraser  a  fool.    The 


"STEPPING   WESTWARD"  269 

unhappy  Regent  Street  publisher  took  care  to  keep 
Carlyle  well  informed  of  the  roasting  to  which  he  was 
subjected  by  readers  of  the  magazine.  Now  and  again 
they  met  at  the  shop,  and  the  bookseller  talked  his 
cautious  pessimism  about  what  '*  paid "  and  what  did 
not.  He  told  Carlyle  that  one  of  his  oldest  sub- 
scribers  came  in  to  him   and   said,  "  If   there  is  any 

more  of  that  d d  stuff  I  will,"  etc.,  etc.     But  from 

some  discerning  American  had  come  the  antidotal 
order  to  send  the  magazine  so  long  as  anything  of 
Carlyle's  was  in  it. 

Carlyle's  opinion  of  Fraser,  if  contemptuous,  was 
good-natured :  the  man  wrote  his  cheques  punctually. 
Often,  indeed,  the  utterer  of  everlasting  Nays  and 
Yeas  came  to  dine  at  215  Regent  Street.  Here  on  a 
January  night  in  1832  he  met  at  Eraser's  table  James 
Hogg,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  and  wondered  to  see  this 
"poor  herd  body  blown  hither  from  his  sheepfolds, 
and  how,  quite  friendless  as  he  was,  he  went  along 
cheerful,  mirthful,  and  musical."  Lockhart  was  there, 
and  John  Gait ;  but  the  talk,  even  so,  was  ''  utterly 
despicable,"  and  nothing  was  said  "  that  did  not  even 
solicit  in  mercy  to  be  forgotten."  On  another  occasion 
he  appears  to  have  had  better  fortune,  though  it  is  not 
from  his  own  pen  that  we  have  the  record.  In  that 
curious  book,  "  Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Bohemian," 
the  garrulous  Dr.  Strauss  recalls  a  night  at  Eraser's  at 
which  he  met  Dr.  Maginn,  Eather  Prout,  Thackeray, 
and  Carlyle.  He  says  it  was  a  glorious  night.  At 
least,  they  talked  literature.  "  Tom  Carlyle  grew  ex- 
uberantly enthusiastic  upon  Milton,  coming  down 
upon  the  company  somewhat  heavily,  and  perhaps 
unreasonably,  with  long  quotations  from  the  two 
Paradises  and  '  Samson  Agonistes.'" 

Thus  with  agony,  and  some  mitigations,  Carlyle  got 


2  70  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

his  Teufelsdrockh's  Clothes  Philosophy  uttered  in  the 
very  mart  and  mirror  of  fine  clothes,  and  close  to  the 
streets  which  form  the  Mecca  of  the  Dandiacal  Body. 
Time  has  only  deepened  the  irony  of  the  coincidence. 
Teufelsdrockh  mockingly  welcomes  "printed  Paper 
Aprons  as  worn  by  the  Parisian  Cooks,"  as  giving 
a  new  vent  to  typography  and  encouragement  to 
modern  literature  ;  and  he  adds,  "  I  hear  of  a  cele- 
brated London  Firm  having  in  view  to  introduce  the 
same  fashion,  with  important  extensions,  in  England." 
Here,  evidently,  we  have  prophecy  fulfilled.  For  the 
Printed  Aprons  are  now  legion.  A  vast  journalism  of 
clothes  has  sprung  up  whose  mission  it  is  to  make 
hypnotic  affirmations  on  what  woman  shall  wear,  and 
then,  as  quickly  as  possible,  to  demode  it  off  her  back. 
In  vain  had  Carlyle's  thunders  contended  with  the 
reciprocating  voices  of  Regent  Street  and  Fleet  Street 
to-day. 

Three  of  Carlyle's  closest  friends  can  be  connected 
with  the  street.  Thackeray  I  have  already  mentioned. 
Down  the  Regent  Street  pavement  strolled  one  day 
Alfred  Tennyson  and  Edward  FitzGerald.  They 
stopped  to  look  into  a  window  where  busts  of  Dante 
and  Goethe  were  displayed.  When  they  had  looked 
at  these  in  silence  FitzGerald  said,  "What  is  there 
wanting  in  Goethe  which  the  other  has  ? "  Tennyson 
answered,  "  The  divine." 

Southey  relates  a  ludicrous  affair  into  which  he  and 
Campbell  fell  one  day  in  the  Quadrant.  Campbell 
wished  to  relieve  a  poor  woman,  and  rushed  into  the 
nearest  shop  to  change  a  sovereign.  The  shopkeeper, 
being  busy  with  customers,  delayed  to  oblige  him, 
and  the  generous  poet  lost  his  temper.  Thereupon  the 
shopkeeper  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  two 
rogue?  to  deal  with,  and  rashly  sent  for  the  police. 


"STEPPING   WESTWARD"  271 

Campbell  stood  in  helpless  fury,  but  when  Southey 
explained  things  to  the  constable,  that  worthy,  who 
happened  to  be  a  Glasgow  man,  exclaimed,  ^'Guid- 
ness,  mon,  is  that  Maister  Camell,  the  Lord  Rector  o' 
Glaisgie  ? "  After  that  it  was  difficult  to  separate 
Campbell  and  the  shopkeeper,  so  warmly  were  their 
hands  interclasped. 

From  Regent  Street  the  way  into  Bond  Street  is 
short,  and  Bond  Street  is  the  jewel  of  the  West  End, 
and  by  many  degrees  its  most  compactly  interesting 
street.  It  is  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  of  London,  but  it  is 
also  the  comfortable  old  High  Street  of  Mayfair.  No 
street  in  the  world  supplies,  on  a  high  plane  of  quality 
and  expense,  so  many  human  wants.     It  is  the  place 


Where  each  who  wills  may  suit  his  wish, 
Here  choose  a  Guido — there  his  fish. 


If  you  continue  the  line  of  the  street  directly  across 
the  map  of  London,  that  line  will  ultimately  bring 
your  eye  to  Peckham,  and  it  was  from  Peckham  that 
Bond  Street  drew  its  name.  Sir  Thomas  Bond  lived 
there.  It  is  now  a  solemn  question  whether  Bond 
Street  is  conscious  of  the  existence  of  the  south- 
eastern suburb.  Sir  Thomas  built  Bond  Street  in  the 
year  1686,  and  this  date  appears  on  the  rebuilt  cake- 
shop  at  the  corner  of  Piccadilly.  Not  a  few  houses  in 
Bond  Street,  some  low,  some  high,  stand  out  from 
their  neighbours  as  original  or  early  buildings.  And 
the  long  street  rises  and  sinks  to-day  as  the  fields 
swelled  on  which  it  was  built.  Woodcock  and  snipe 
were  shot  where  now  they  are  trussed. 

The  most  moving  story  of  Bond  Street  belongs  to 
its  earlier  period.  On  a  March  afternoon  in  1768  a 
party   sat  at    dinner   in   John    Crawford's    rooms   in 


272  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Clifford  Street.  The  Dukes  of  Roxburghe  and  Grafton 
were  there,  and  Garrick  and  Hume.  They  all  knew 
that  in  Bond  Street,  a  stone's-throw  away,  Laurence 
Sterne  was  lying  ill,  and  by  general  consent  a  footman 
was  sent  to  inquire  how  he  did.  That  footman  was 
the  only  person  who  saw  the  author  of  "  Tristram 
Shandy  "  die.  Sent  upstairs  by  the  landlady,  he  found 
the  great  author  in  extremis.  Afterwards  he  wrote 
some  curious  memoirs,  in  which  the  scene  is  de- 
scribed :  "  I  went  into  the  room  and  he  was  just 
a-dying.  I  waited  ten  minutes,  and  in  five  he  said, 
'  Now  it  is  come '  1  He  put  up  his  hands  as  if  to  stop 
a  blow,  and  died  in  a  minute."  Where  this  happened 
Agnew's  now  stands. 

In  Old  Bond  Street  the  poet  Thomson  lived  for 
some  time.  That  his  lodging  was  on  the  west  side  of 
the  street  is  proved  by  a  caustic  remark  of  Mrs.  Piozzi, 
who  said  that  the  author  of  '*The  Castle  of  Indolence  " 
was  himself  so  indolent  that  he  seldom  rose  to  see  the 
sun  do  more  than  glisten  on  the  opposite  windows  of 
the  street. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  stayed  in  Long's  Hotel  in  1815. 
in  Bond  Street  Nelson  had  one  of  his  homes.  From 
this  street  Lord  Camelford,  knowing  himself  to  be 
in  the  wrong,  went  to  Kensington  to  die  a  duellist's 
death.  In  1831,  Haydon's  picture  of  Napoleon  at 
St.  Helena  was  exhibited  at  No.  21,  and  there  became 
the  subject  of  Wordsworth's  sonnet  containing  the 
lines  : — 

Sky  without  cloud — ocean  without  wave — 

And  the  one  man  that  laboured  to  enslave 
The  world,  sole-standing  high  on  the  bare  hill. 

Byron,  too,  knew  Bond  Street  well.     Here  flourished  j 
John  Jackson,  or  Gentleman   Jackson,  the   instructor  f 


"STEPPING   WESTWARD"  273 

and  pontiff  of  pugilism  in  the  days  of  the  Regency. 
His  fame  is  carried  into  the  region  of  Hterature  by 
his  association  with  the  poet.  One  day  Leigh  Hunt 
saw  a  small  black  object  dancing  on  the  Thames 
near  Waterloo  Bridge  and  a  quiet  man  on  the  bank 
gazing  at  it  intently.  The  object  was  the  head  of 
Lord  Byron,  and  the  quietly  dressed  onlooker  was 
Gentleman  John  Jackson,  his  tutor  in  all  manly  sports, 
named  in  "Don  Juan"  as  "  my  old  friend  and  cor- 
poral pastor  and  master." 

If  Bond  Street  is  May  fair's  High  Street,  Park  Lane 
is  its  esplanade.  Park  Lane  and  summer  join  to  pro- 
duce a  unique  manifestation  of  London  life.  Across 
the  road,  the  motor-cars  roll  softly  for  hours — 
Mayfair  emptying  its  ladies  into  the  Park,  and  the 
Park  gates  returning  them  softly  to  Mayfair.  Park 
Lane  still  suggests  the  end  of  the  town.  The  great 
westward  trend  of  fashion  from  the  Strand  and 
Bloomsbury  and  Soho  was  brought  to  a  stand  by 
the  Park,  and  against  that  aerial  barrier  it  still  presses. 
I  have  fancied  sometimes  that  the  enormous  bay- 
windows  and  sweeping  balconies  in  Park  Lane  have 
been  blown  out  like  bubbles  by  the  Goddess  of 
Fashion,  straining  for  space  and  an  occidental 
sanctity. 

The  long  line  of  houses  perfectly  indicates  that 
there  has  been  a  scramble  for  this  ultimate  foothold. 
Here  we  do  not  find,  as  art  and  decorum  would 
suggest,  a  stately  line  of  great  mansions  facing  the 
Royal  demesne.  Instead,  we  have  a  costly  higgledy- 
piggledy,  relying  on  later  and  auxiliary  elegances  for 
its  effect.  Of  the  facades  before  you,  half  are  fronts 
and  half  are  backs.  The  houses  are  of  all  shapes 
and  sizes ;  some  suggest  small  palaces  and  some 
glorified    bathing-machines.     It   is   indeed   the    *^  far- 


374  A   LONDONER'S    LONDON 

flung  line  "  of  the  great  host  whose  taste  in  residence 
has  followed  the  sun  with  an  almost  panic  fastidious- 
ness. Let  rearguards  like  Carlton  Terrace  be  massive  ; 
the  great  Lane  knows  that  the  race  is  won,  with  the 
Park  before  it  like  the  inviolable  sea.  Therefore  up 
and  down  its  length  has  run  all  the  foam  of  adornment 
— ivory  paint,  delicate  balconies,  censers  of  perfume, 
and  awnings  that  respond  to  the  flower-beds  to  which 
they  slant. 

In  Mayfair  you  receive  the  suggestion  of  "all  that 
beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave  "  to  London,  yet  the 
annals  of  luxury  and  ease  are  leavened  in  every  street 
by  those  of  wit,  art,  and  culture.  By  those,  also,  of 
tragedy.  At  the  head  of  Park  Lane,  retired  in  bricky 
seclusion,  stands  Camelford  House,  the  first  home, 
after  her  marriage,  of  the  most  loved  and  lamented 
of  royal  girls.  In  November  of  1817  the  blow  fell, 
and  it  is  curious  that  the  nation's  grief  was  uttered 
by  the  exiled  poet  whose  statue  now  rises  on  the 
borders  of  Park  Lane.  It  was  in  Venice  that  Byron 
forgot  all  his  agitations  in  those  lines  of  sweeping 
sadness :  ''  Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding-garment 
made." 

Both  Byron  and  Scott  are  recalled  in  Park  Street, 
where  lived  and  learned  the  eccentric,  literary,  society- 
loving  Lydia  White.  She  kept  her  little  ball  rolling 
in  Park  Street  in  spite  of  age  and  dropsy.  As  Miss 
Diddle  this  lady  figures  in  Byron's  forgotten  "  literary 
eclogue,"  "  The  Blues."  Rogers  said  of  her  in  1826  : 
"  How  wonderfully  she  does  hold  out  1  They  may 
say  what  they  will,  but  Miss  White  and  A/wsolonghi 
are  the  most  remarkable  things  going."  A  year  later 
Lydia  White  died,  and  Scott  wrote  :  "  She  had  a 
party  at  dinner  on  the  Friday  before,  and  had  written 
with  her  own  hand  invitations  for  another  party.  .  .  . 


PARK    LANE 

THE      '  FAR    FLUNG   LINE  "    OF   THE   GREAT   HOST   WHOSE   TASTE    IN    RESIDENCE    HAS 
FOLLOWED   THE   SUN   WITH    AN   ALMOST    PANIC    FASTIDIOUSNESS      (p.  274) 


"STEPPING   WESTWARD"  275 

She  was  not,  and  would  not,  be  forgotten,  even  when 
disease  obliged  her,  as  it  did  for  years,  to  confine 
herself  to  her  couch  ;  and  the  world,  much  abused 
for  hard-heartedness,  was  kind  in  her  case — so  she 
lived  in  the  society  she  liked.  No  great  expenditure 
was  necessary  for  this.  She  had  an  easy  fortune,  but 
not  more.  Poor  Lydia  1  I  saw  the  Duke  of  York 
and  her  in  London,  when  Death,  it  seems,  was 
brandishing  his  dart  over  them.  '  The  view  o't  gave 
them  little  fright.'  " 

Number  23  Park  Lane,  next  to  Lord  Brassey's  well- 
known  house,  was  eighty  years  ago  the  home  of 
'^  Conversation "  Sharp.  Here  in  his  study  he  had 
portraits  of  Johnson,  Burke,  and  Reynolds,  of  whom 
he  could  talk  at  first-hand  as  late  as  1833.  Richard 
Sharp  falls  into  a  group  of  City  men  whose  social  or 
other  talents  brought  them  into  choice  company  in 
the  West  End.  He  belonged  to  the  West  India  firm 
of  Boddington,  Sharp  &  Phillips  in  Fish  Street  Hill. 
Afterwards  he  was  head  of  the  house  of  Richard 
Sharp  &  Co.,  of  Mark  Lane,  hat  manufacturers.  His 
hat-making  was  the  subject  of  one  of  Luttrell's  jokes. 
"  I  was  mentioning,"  relates  Moore,  ^'  that  some  one 
had  said  of  Sharp's  very  dark  complexion  that  he 
looked  as  if  the  dye  of  his  old  trade  had  got  ingrained 
in  his  face."  "Yes,"  said  Luttrell,  "a  darkness  that 
may  be  felt." 

The  envious  said  that  the  conversationalist  gave  his 
mornings  to  the  preparation  of  the  remarks  and 
anecdotes  by  which  he  meant  to  shine  in  the  evening, 
but  this,  if  established,  would  only  have  proved  that 
he  thought  conversation  worth  while.  Examples  of 
Sharp's  talk  are  few  and  fragmentary,  yet  the  engag- 
ing qualities  of  his  mind  can  be  appreciated  in  the 
little  book  of  "  Letters  and  Essays "  which  he  issued 


276  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

in  1834,  ^"^  which  was  highly  praised  by  the 
"Quarterly  Review."  To  read  this  forgotten  book  is 
to  find  a  fountain  of  worldly  wisdom  springing  up  in 
old  Park  Lane — a  fountain  fed  not  merely  from  the 
clubs  and  dinner-tables  at  which  Sharp  triumphed, 
but  from  his  experience  as  a  public  man,  a  Member 
of  Parliament,  and  a  private  adviser  of  statesmen.  On 
life's  decline  he  writes  in  a  vein  of  Mayfair  philosophy  : 
"  Do  not  wait  ;  but  as  you  run  along,  snatch  at  every 
fruit  and  flower  growing  within  your  reach  ;  for,  after 
all  can  be  said,  youth,  the  age  of  hope  and  admiration 
and  manhood,  the  age  of  business  and  of  influence, 
are  to  be  preferred  to  the  period  of  extinguished 
passions  and  languid  curiosity.  At  that  season  our 
hopes  and  wishes  must  have  been  too  long  dropping, 
leaf  by  leaf,  away.  The  last  scenes  of  the  fifth  act 
are  seldom  the  most  interesting  either  in  a  tragedy  or 
a  comedy.  Yet  many  compensations  arise  as  our 
sensibility  decays. 


Time  steals  away  the  rose,  'tis  true, 
But  then  the  thorn  is  blunted  too, 


though  I  like  much  better  than  these  humiliating 
thoughts  the  spirit  of  Montaigne's  sturdy  determina- 
tion, *  Les  ans  peuvent  m'entrainer,  mats  d  rcculonsJ  " 
At  the  corner  of  Upper  Grosvenor  Street,  a  large 
bay-windowed  house  with  green  lattice  shutters  and 
garden  railings  to  match  them  was  for  thirty-three 
years  the  home  of  Lord  Beaconsfield.  The  house  had 
been  left  to  his  wife  by  her  first  husband,  Mr.  Wyndham 
Lewis.  Here  Mrs.  Disraeli  began  that  long  homely 
ministry  to  her  husband's  comfort  which  places  her 
high  among  the  wives  of  statesmen.  Once,  when 
asked  how  she  kept  Disraeli  going,  she  replied  :   *'  I 


♦'STEPPING  WESTWARD"  277 

always  have  supper  ready  for  him  when  he  comes 
home,  and  lights,  lights,  plenty  of  lights — Dizzy  always 
likes  lights."  It  was  this  love  of  the  lights  of  Mayfair, 
among  which  he  died,  that  prompted  Sydney  Smith's 
jocular  vision  of  London  happiness:  ** An  immense 
square  with  the  trees  flowering  with  flambeaux ^  with  gas 
for  grass  and  every  window  illuminated  with  countless 
chandelicrSy  and  voices  reiterating  for  ever  and  for  every 
Mr.  Sydney  Smith  is  coming  upstairs." 


CHAPTER    XI 
THE  STREET  OF  SONGS  AND  SIXPENCES 

"The  Biggest  Street  in  the  City" — Heine  in  Distress — Byron  on 
London — The  Paris  Equation — Shakespeare's  View  from  Bankside — 
London  compared — Pageants  and  Poets — The  Hungry  Generations — 
Mr.  Scrivener  Milton  of  Bread  Street's  Boy — Milton  Unawares — In 
Artillery  Walk — "  Pilgrim's  Progress  " — A  Dinner  at  Dilly's — An 
"  Extraneous  Person  " — Poor  Susan— An  Invisible  Street — Richard 
Jefferies  at  the  Bank — The  Street  of  the  China  Orange — The  Grass- 
hopper— Translating  a  Statue — An  Eccentric  Banker — Pope's  "  Learned 
Friend  of  Abchurch  Lane  " — The  Chop-houses — Todgers's — Dickens 
and  the  Spirit  of  Place — Cabbage-leaves  and  Comedy — The  Bridge  of 
Memories — '*  London  Bridge  is  Broken  Down  " — A  Tyneside  Carol — 
Proverbs  of  London  Bridge — The  London  Expression — A  Wooden 
Gallery— The  Water  Gate  of  London 

IN  No.  79  of  the  ^'Connoisseur/'  Bonnell  Thornton 
has  a  story  of  meeting  a  tailor  in  a  country  inn, 
about  forty  miles  from  London,  who  traced  on  a 
map  that  hung  over  the  mantelpiece  his  London 
haunts.  "At  last,  after  having  transported  me  all  over 
the  town,  he  set  me  down  in  Cheapside,  '  which,'  he 
said,  '  was  the  biggest  street  in  the  City.'  *  And  now,' 
says  he,  '  I  will  show  you  where  I  live  1  That  is  Bow 
Church,  and  thereabouts — where  my  pipe  is,  there — 
just  there,  my  shop  stands.'  He  concluded  with  a 
kind  invitation  to  me  to  come  and  see  him,  and  pulling 
out  a  book  of  patterns  from  his  coat-pocket,  assured 
me  that  if  I  wanted  anything  in  his  way,  he  could 
afford    to   let   me    have  a    bargain."     The   name  of 

a7« 


THE  STREET  OF  SONGS   AND  SIXPENCES     279 

Cheapside  had  long  been  almost  a  synonym  of  London 
shopkeeping.  ^^You  are  as  arrant  a  Cockney  as  any 
hosier  in  Cheapside,"  wrote  Swift  to  Gay,  and  Cowper's 
"Gilpin"— founded  on  the  character  of  John  Beyer, 
the  linen-draper,  of  No.  3  Cheapside — is  instinct  with 
this  view  of  the  street  as  the  home  of  the  "  Cit "  and 
Cockney  tradesman. 

It  was  in  this  Cheapside  of  trade,  in  this  "biggest 
street  in  the  City,"  that  Heine  made  his  reflections  on 
London,  eighty  years  ago.  "  Send  a  philosopher  to 
London,"  he  wrote,  "but  no  poet !  Send  a  philosopher 
there,  he  will  hear  the  pulse  of  the  world  beat  audibly, 
and  see  it  visibly — for,  if  London  is  the  right  hand  of 
the  world — its  active,  mighty  right  hand — then  one 
may  regard  that  street  which  leads  from  the  Exchange 
to  Downing  Street  as  the  world's  radial  artery.  But 
send  no  poet  to  London  !  This  downright  earnestness 
of  all  things,  the  colossal  uniformity,  the  machine-like 
monument,  this  moroseness  even  in  pleasure  ;  this 
exaggerated  London,  smothers  the  imagination  and 
rends  the  heart." 

These  words  illustrate  the  diverse  reactions  of 
London.  Poet  and  philosopher  himself,  Heine  was 
more  concerned  at  the  moment  to  guard  his  habit  of 
mind  than  to  project  himself  into  that  which  seemed 
less  as  a  town  than  a  monstrous  camp,  or  a  "  stone 
forest  of  houses."  There  is  sufficient  oddness  in  the 
fact  that  he  bade  the  world  send  no  poet  to  London 
when  contemplating  the  street  which  had  nourished 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  drawn  a  song  from  Words- 
worth, been  acclaimed  as  his  home  by  Herrick,  and 
given  lodging  to  Keats.  But  Heine's  dismay  in 
Cheapside  was  not  a  singular  experience.  Many  a 
poetic  and  sensitive  mind  has  been  crushed  and 
emptied,  for  a  time,  by  the  first  revelation  of  London 


28o  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

For  the  stranger  expects  a  whole,  and  finds  only  parts 
and  reference  and  cross-reference.  No  view  at  once 
synthetic  and  intimate  satisfies  the  eye  ;  the  total  must 
be  compiled.  Byron  knew  this.  He  who  has  stood 
on  the  Acropolis,  he  says  : 

May  not  think  much  of  London's  first  appearance — 
But  ask  what  he  thinks  of  it  a  year  hence  ! 

This  was  the  right  word  to  Heine  in  Cheapside,  but 
he  stayed  in  England  only  three  months,  visiting 
Ramsgate,  before  he  returned  to  the  small  cities  of 
Holland  and  Germany.  Four  years  later  he  saw  Paris 
for  the  first  time.  How  different,  now,  his  feelings 
and  exclamations  !  London  had  impressed  him  as 
"the  greatest  wonder  which  the  world  can  show  to  the 
astonished  spirit,"  its  people  as  a  "  rushing  stream  of 
faces,  of  living  human  faces,  with  all  their  motley 
passions,  all  their  terrible  impulses  of  love,  of  hunger, 
and  of  hate."  And  standing  in  Cheapside,  looking 
into  a  print-shop  window,  he  had  been  hustled  with 
plentiful  '^God-damns."  In  London  he  had  seen  the 
background  first.  So  soon  as  he  entered  Paris,  all 
was  foreground  and  amenity,  and  the  great  arch  of 
St.  Denis,  erected  in  honour  of  Louis  XIV,  seemed  to 
glorify  his  own  entry  into  the  city  of  politeness,  salons, 
cafes,  and  social  ease.  Tragedy  there  was,  in  Paris 
too,  but  over  it  all  a  rosy  light  and  sweet  air. 

This  contrast,  drawn  by  Heine  in  the  excitement 
of  first  impressions,  is  old  and  familiar.  It  needed 
a  hundred  adjustments  and  corrections,  many  of 
which  have  been  made  by  Time  and  changing 
sentiment.  Such  hasty  violence  of  comparison, 
however,  is  still  precipitated  by  London's  lack  of 
ensemble,    its   shapelessness,    and    that   comparative 


THE  STREET  OF  SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     281 

inhospitality  to  the  stranger  from  which  its  heart 
is  free — if  its  heart  could  be  found.  The  Londoner 
of  to-day,  without  the  least  deflection  of  his  London 
love,  is  enamoured  of  Paris ;  simply,  I  believe, 
because  he  finds  there  a  certain  relief  from  the 
immensity,  the  inexistence,  so  to  speak,  of  London. 
The  picture  of  Paris  ^^ comes  together"  in  a  way 
that  the  picture  of  London  never  can.  It  frames 
itself.  From  the  terrace  under  the  church  of  the 
Sacre  Coeur  you  feel  that  you  can  drop  a  stone 
into  Paris.  From  the  terrace  above  the  poignant 
^*  Aux  Morts "  monument  in  the  cemetery  of  Pere 
Lachaise  you  can  survey  the  living  city  from  the 
dead.  But  London,  seen  from  Greenwich,  or 
Sydenham,  or  Highgate,  shows  less  as  a  city  than 
as  Heine's  '^  camp  of  men "  or  as  that  "  county 
covered  with  houses"  which  it  was  called  long 
before  Heine.  Sublime  and  moving,  the  view  can 
be,  but  not  very  intimate  or  very  intelligible. 

In  the  century  of  Shakespeare's  death,  that  fine  old 
Londoner,  James  Howell,  called  on  Paris  and  on  all 
the  cities  of  Europe  to  do  obeisance  to  London. 

Constantinople  first.  Her  houses,  he  finds,  are  but 
*'  cottage-like  "  compared  with  London's,  and  although 
her  situation  "  upon  the  most  levant  point  of  Europe  " 
is  splendid,  she  "  may  be  called  but  a  nest  or  banner 
of  slaves." 

Rome  is  like  "  a  tall  man  shrunk  into  the  skin  of  a 
Pygmey." 

Milan,  'tis  true,  "may  pretend  much  for  her  dome," 
but  in  "ubiquitary  traffique"  where  stands  she  ?• 

Venice,  though  she  have  the  sea  for  her  husband, 
has  no  more  interest  in  it  than  London.  And,  "  while 
Venice  is  steeping  and  pickling  in  Salt-watery  London 
sports  herself  upon  the  banks  of  a  fresh,  stately  River, 


282  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

which  brings  into  her  bosom  all  the  Spices  of  the 
East,"  etc. 

Naples  is  too  hot,  for  there  the  sun  "  doth  as  it  were 
broyl  the  Neapolitan"  whereas  he  doth  "  with  the 
gentle  reverberations  of  his  rayes  but  guild  the  Walls 
of  London." 

**  Touching  Copenhagen  in  Denmark^  and  Stockholm 
in  Swethland,  they  come  far  short."  Even  Mosco  is 
but  a  ^'huge  wooden  City  environed  about  with  a 
treble  wall,"  and  far  beneath  London. 

Amsterdam  gives  our  boaster  some  judicial  qualms. 
But  he  thinks  that  "in  point  of  wealth  Amsterdam 
comes  short  of  London,  for  when  Sir  Ralph  Freeman 
was  Lord  Mayor,  it  was  found  out  by  more  than  a 
probable  conjecture  that  He,  with  the  24  Aldermen, 
his  Brethren,  might  have  bought  the  estates  of  one 
hundred  of  the  richest  Bourgemasters  in  Amsterdam." 

Paris  is  also  formidable,  but  the  Londoner  is  not  to 
be  dazzled  by  "  the  advantage  of  an  Orbicular  figure," 
for  "by  the  judgment  of  those  Mathematicians  who 
have  observed  both  Cities,  if  London  were  cast  into  a 
Circle,  she  would  with  all  her  dimensions  be  altogether 
as  big  as  Paris." 

Finally,  he  sums  up  the  glories  of  London  under 
twenty  headings,  and  pours  out  a  torrent  of  words, 
images,  and  facts  in  which  the  cities  of  the  world 
are  overwhelmed  and  obscured.  London,  he  says, 
has  need  of  them,  but  not  fear.  "  London  by  her 
Navigations  tindes  them  out ;  .  .  .  What  goodly  vessels 
doth  she  send  fortii,  to  crosse  the  Line  to  the  East 
Indies,  to  Italy,  and  the  bottom  of  the  Streights,  the 
Turks  Dominions ;  as  also  to  the  Baltick  Sea,  how  she 
flyes  ore  the  vast  white  Ocean  to  Muscovy,  and  to  hunt 
the  great  Leviathan  in  Greenland." 

Clieapside  was,  and  is,  part  of  "the  world's  radial 


THE  STREET   OF   SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     283 

artery."  Along  it,  east  and  west,  many  pageants  of 
Anglo-Saxon  history  have  moved.  Shopkeeping 
relieved  by  royal  and  civic  shows  was  the  note 
of  the  street  for  centuries.  To-day,  great  pro- 
cessions go  through  Cheapside  to  the  Guildhall, 
but  in  Norman,  Plantagenet,  and  Tudor  times  the 
street  awaited  royal  entries  into  London  from  the 
east  and  south.  English  kings,  riding  to  their 
coronations,  from  the  Tower  to  Westminster,  passed 
through  it ;  and  when  they  returned  from  battle- 
fields. Royal  brides  entered  London  by  Cheapside, 
as  did  Anne  of  Bohemia,  after  her  marriage  to 
Richard  II,  and  Margaret  of  Anjou,  with  her 
husband,  Henry  VI.  The  birth  of  the  Black  Prince 
was  celebrated  by  a  tournament  of  knights  in  the 
street,  and  here  Elizabeth  received  her  Bible  from 
the  citizens  under  a  blaze  of  banners. 

For  centuries  it  was  the  custom  for  members  of  the 
Royal  Family  to  come  into  the  City  to  be  spectators 
of  the  Lord  Mayor's  Show — a  fact  much  forgotten 
to-day.  The  circumstances  of  the  visit  were  simple 
and  friendly,  and  a  house  which  stood  in  Cheapside 
opposite  Bow  Church  acquired  great  distinction  from 
the  fact  that  its  balcony  was  used  by  successive 
monarchs  on  Lord  Mayor's  Day.  Six  reigning 
Sovereigns,  of  whom  Charles  II  was  the  first,  are 
said  to  have  visited  this  house,  and  of  these  no 
fewer  than  three,  George  I,  George  II,  and 
George  III,  came  to  it  as  the  guests  of  the  Quaker 
family  of  Barclay.  ^'  Wilt  thou  alight,  George,  and 
thy  wife  Charlotte,  and  come  into  my  house  and 
view  the  Mayor's  show  ? "  is  said  to  have  been  the 
old  banker's  greeting  to  his  King  on  the  occasion 
of  the  Lord  Mayor's  show  in  1761.  Barclay  was 
then    eighty-one    years    of    age,    and    in    the    same 


i 


284  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

house  he  had  received  in  much  the  same  manner 
George  Ill's  two  predecessors  on  the  throne. 

Wherever  commerce  and  national  pageantry  mingle, 
you  have  that  stir  of  life,  and  those  appeals  to  ambition 
and  imagination,  which  may  be  expected  to  produce 
some  accompanying  splendour  of  Art.  And  Cheapside 
is  not  an  exception  to  this  rule.  With  no  other  street 
can  we  connect  such  names  as  Chaucer,  Shakespeare, 
Ben  Jonson,  Raleigh,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Donne, 
Milton,  Bunyan,  Keats,  and  Wordsworth.  The  Mer- 
maid Tavern  was  in  Bread  Street,  and  it  had  an  entrance 
from  Cheapside.  Many  of  the  Elizabethan  wits,  poets, 
and  voyagers  made  the  "  Mermaid "  their  evening 
haunt,  and  the  talk  was  such,  says  Jonson,  that 
when  at  last  the  company  broke  up  :  "  We  left  an 
air  behind  us  " — words,  which  when  I  first  transcribed 
them,  were  amended  by  an  inspired  compositor  to 
read,  ''We  left  an  ass  behind  us." 

Keats  had  a  brief  lodging  in  1817  at  No.  76 
Cheapside,  over  the  passage  leading  to  the  Queen's 
Head  Tavern,  opposite  the  Mercers'  Hall,  and  wrote 
there  his  sonnet,  '*  On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 
Homer,"  and  ''  Great  Spirits  now  on  Earth  are  Sojourn- 
ing." That  many  other  poems  included  in  Keats's  first 
volume,  that  of  181 7,  were  written  under  Bow  Church 
is  certain.  But  the  little  volume  failed,  and  in  the 
indifferent  roar  of  Cheapside  there  may  have  come  to 
Keats  something  of  the  feeling  which  he  afterwards 
threw  into  the  saddest  and  loveliest  of  his  verses  : — 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird, 
No  hungry  generations  tread  ihec  down. 

On  the  Cheapside  pavements  Milton  played  as  a 
boy.  The  picture  appealed  to  Carlyle;  "O,  Posterity," 
he  chants,  *'it  is  within  men's  memory  when  there  was 


THE   STREET   OF   SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     285 

an  open  blacksmith's  forge  on  the  north  side  of  Cheap ; 
men  openly  shoeing  horses  there.  And  now  it  has 
broad  flag-pavements,  safe  from  wheel  and  horse,  even 
for  the  maids  and  children  ;  and  there  runs  about  on 
it  one  little  Boy  very  interesting  to  me  :  ^John  Milton,' 
he  says  he  is;  a  flaxen-haired,  blue-eyed,  beautiful  little 
object ;  Mr.  Scrivener  Milton  of  Bread  Street's  Boy  : 
Good  Heavens  1 " 

Against  the  west  wall  of  St.  Mary-le-Bow  Church, 
if  you  will  turn  but  a  step  from  Cheapside,  you  may 
read,  cut  in  stone,  the  famous  epigram  :  "  Three  Poets 
in  three  distant  ages  born,"  whereof  one  was  the 
Scrivener's  boy.  The  rest  of  the  inscription  sets  forth 
that  John  Milton  was  born  in  Bread  Street,  and 
baptized  in  the  parish  church  of  All  Hallows,  in  the 
same  street,  and  that  this  tablet  was  removed  to  St. 
Mary-le-Bow  Church  when  All  Hallows  was  pulled 
down,  in  1876.  Bread  Street  belongs  to  the  great 
St.  Paul's  Churchyard  group  of  streets  which  forms 
the  wholesale  mart  of  Manchester  fabrics  and  Paris 
fashions.  The  same  commercial  character  marks  that 
labyrinth  north  of  Cheapside  which  brings  you  to  the 
site  of  the  small  house  in  Artillery  Row  in  which  Milton 
completed  *^  Paradise  Lost."  The  place  where  the  poet 
drank  deeply  of  the  Pierian  spring  is  now  occupied  by 
a  firm  of  well-sinkers.  Within  sight  is  the  belfried 
brick  tower  of  St.  Giles's  under  which  he  sleeps  and 
where,  at  his  parish  church  door,  stands  his  effigy  in 
bronze.  This  graceful  statue  was  erected  a  few  years 
ago  at  the  instance  of  Alderman  Sir  J.  ].  Baddeley,  and 
by  subscription. 

The  Milton  home  in  Bread  Street  stood  towards 
Cheapside  on  the  east  side,  and  on  a  site  now  covered 
by  Messrs.  Copestake  &  Crampton's  warehouse,  num- 
bered 58  to  63.     Here,  on  an  upper  floor,  is  preserved 


2S6  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

a  bust  of  the  poet,  with  an  inscription  relating  to  the 
site.  In  those  days  London  houses  were  not  num- 
bered, and  the  worthy  scrivener's  address  was  **  at  the 
sign  of  the  Spread  Eagle."  John  Milton  was  a  Cock- 
ney of  the  Cockneys.  Not  only  was  he  born  within 
sound  of  Bow  bells,  but,  as  Masson  pointed  out,  if 
the  bells  had  fallen  from  the  steeple  they  might  have 
crushed  the  infant  in  his  cradle. 

It  is  left  to  excisemen  to  insist  that  Milton  was  a 
great  man,  but  one  may  pause  to  remark  that  his 
words  are  more  often  quoted  unawares  in  Cheapside 
to-day  than  Cheapside  knows.  Our  quotations  from 
Milton  are  pitched  in  all  keys,  and  we  are  not  always 
to  fly  to  the  context  in  expectation  of  developing  the 
thought.  Great  lines,  taken  into  the  language,  are 
often  put  to  the  uses  of  life  without  reference  to  their 
original  source  or  implications.  Certainly  it  is  true  to 
say,  with  Hazlitt,  that  Milton's  Satan  expresses  the 
sum  and  substance  of  all  ambition  in  one  line:  ^'Fallen 
cherub,  to  be  weak  is  miserable,"  just  as  he  expresses 
the  sum  of  all  defiance  in  the  lines  beginning  ''All  is 
not  lost."  These  expressions  have  passed  into  the 
language  of  human  effort,  and  of  Cheapside.  It  is  from 
Satan's  sublime  invocation  to  the  sun  that  we  take  a  line 
which  is  often  applied  in  ways  not  at  all  sublime  : — 


...  at  whose  sight  all  the  stars 
Hide  their  diminish'd  heads. 


"  Fall'n  on  evil  days  "  are  words  to  which  many  variants 
are  given  ;  they  were  applied  by  Milton  to  himself. 
It  is  often  said  that  one  should  not  be  the  man  who, 
''  when  God  sends  a  cheerful  hour  refrains."  This 
line  is  the  last  of  Milton's  cheery  sonnet  to  his  pupil, 
Cyriac  Skinner,  in  which  he  invites  him  to  lay  aside 


ST.  GILES  S,    CRIPPLEGATE 

.    .    .    THE    BEI-FRIED    BRICK    TOWER    OF    ST.    C.lLEs's    UNDER    WHICH 

MILTON     SLEEPS,     AND     WHERE,     AT     HIS      PARISH     CHURCH     DOOR, 

STANDS    HIS    EFFIGY   IN    BRONZE      (p.  285) 


THE   STREET   OF   SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     387 

his  books,  "  to  let  Euclid  rest  and  Archimedes  pause/' 
and  to  drench  deep  thoughts  in  mirth. 

Indeed,  the  language  of  pleasure,  no  less  than  that 
of  a  city's  toil  and  aspiration,  has  been  enriched  for 
all  time  by  Milton.  ^'The  light  fantastic  toe"  is  his, 
and  "the  cricket  on  the  hearth,"  and  the  "silver  lin- 
ing" to  the  cloud,  "the  busy  hum  of  men,"  the  "sober 
certainty  of  waking  bliss,"  and  "  food  of  the  mind." 
His,  too,  the  oft-quoted  saying  :  "  I  cannot  praise  a 
fugitive  and  cloistered  virtue."  Everyday  quotations 
of  Milton  are  too  numerous  for  comment.  I  resort 
to  catalogue  :  "  Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or 
rhyme,"  "  Justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men,"  "  All  hell 
broke  loose,"  "  Tears  such  as  angels  weep,"  "  Chaos 
and  Old  Night,"  "A  bevy  of  fair  women,"  "Musical 
as  is  Apollo's  lute,"  "Where  more  is  meant  than 
meets  the  ear,"  "  Old  experience,"  "  LinkM  sweetness 
long  drawn  out,"  "Temper  justice  with  mercy," 
"  That  old  man  eloquent,"  "  Dim  religious  light," 
"  Fresh  woods  and  pastures  new,"  "  The  palpable 
obscure,"  "  A  heaven  on  earth."  "  Best  image  of 
myself  and  dearer  half."  The  last  expression  may 
suggest  that  "  better  half "  as  applied  to  a  wife  is  an 
adaptation,  of  Milton's  line,  which,  however,  is  itself  an 
adaptation  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  "  My  better  half." 
But  that  which  was  written  in  homage  to  women  is 
becoming  her  literal  claim. 

Bunyan's  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  was  published  from 
a  bookseller's  shop  in  Poultry  by  Nathaniel  Ponder, 
who  thereafter  was  known  as  "  Bunyan  Ponder " — a 
crisp  example  of  an  author  making  a  publisher 
famous.  The  book  was  entered  by  Ponder  at  Sta- 
tioners' Hall,  and  published  by  him  in  1678,  at  the 
price  of  eighteenpence.  Three  editions  were  called 
for  within  a  year. 


288  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Booksellers  have  left  their  own  mark  on  Cheapside 
and  Poultry.  At  Charles  Dilly's  shop  in  Poultry, 
Boswell  contrived,  v^^ith  infinite  diplomacy,  the  meet- 
ing between  Dr.  Johnson  and  John  Wilkes,  on 
15  May,  1776.  The  two  men  agreed  well,  Wilkes 
sharing  Dr.  Johnson's  delight  in  girding  at  Scotchmen, 
and  it  was  here,  at  Number  22,  on  another  occasion, 
that  the  following  conversation  passed  :  Wilkes :  "  Pray, 
Boswell,  how  much  may  be  got  in  a  year  by  an  Advo- 
cate at  the  Scotch  Bar  ?  "  Boswell :  "  I  believe  two 
thousand  pounds."  Wilks  :  *'  How  can  it  be  possible 
to  spend  that  money  in  Scotland  ?  "  Johnson  :  "  Why, 
sir,  the  money  may  be  spent  in  England  ;  but  there 
is  a  harder  question.  If  one  man  in  Scotland  gets 
possession  of  two  thousand  pounds,  what  remains  for 
all  the  rest  of  the  nation  ?  "  Wilkes  :  "  You  know,  in 
the  last  war,  the  immense  booty  which  Thurot  carried 
off  by  the  complete  plunder  of  seven  Scotch  isles  ;  he 
re-embarked  with  three  and  sixpence." 

Every  Londoner  knows  the  curious  ornate  house 
on  the  south  side  of  Cheapside,  near  King  Street, 
which  bears  the  inscription,  *' Formerly  the  Mansion 
House."  To  these  premises,  in  1824,  came  Thomas 
Tegg,  who  made  a  fortune  by  buying  and  selling 
books  on  an  unprecedented  scale,  and  with  a  keen 
nose  for  a  bargain.  The  pioneer  of  "remainder" 
bookselling,  he  called  himself  "  the  broom  that  swept 
Ihe  booksellers' warehouses."  At  No.  iii  Cheapside, 
and  then  at  No.  73,  he  held  nightly  book-sales,  at 
which  he  appeared  to  be  giving  away  books.  In 
reality  his  broom  had  been  at  work  among  bankrupt 
stocks  and  on  the  choked  shelves  of  the  West  End 
publishers.  People  flocked  from  all  corners  of  Lon- 
don to  Tegg's,  to  buy  books  at  one-sixth  or  one- 
seventh  of  the  published  price,  or  merely  to  see  them 


THE  STREET  OF  SONGS  AND  SIXPENCES     2S9 

sold.  He  acquired  from  Murray  the  old  stock  of  the 
^^  Family  Library "  for  something  like  ;£8ooo.  There 
were  more  than  150,000  volumes  in  this  parcel,  and 
he  bought  them  at  a  shilling  each,  and  reissued  them 
at  double  the  price.  He  even  made  a  good  profit  out 
of  the  purchase  of  50,000  volumes  of  Valpy's  "  Del- 
phin  Classics."  In  the  period  of  commercial  depres- 
sion which  befell  London  in  1826,  Tegg  bought  the 
most  popular  of  Scott's  novels  at  fourpence  each.  He 
also  purchased  the  copyrights  of  Hone's  '^  Every-Day 
Book  "  and  '^  Table  Book,"  and  repubhshing  them  in 
weekly  parts  cleared  a  huge  profit.  He  gave  Hone 
£Soo  to  complete  the  *^  Year  Book,"  but  this  was  less 
successful. 

Besides  remarketing  old  book  stock,  Tegg  issued 
innumerable  reprints,  apparently  with  small  regard 
for  the  rights  of  authors.  When  Talfourd's  Copyright 
Bill  was  before  the  House  of  Commons  in  1839, 
Thomas  Carlyle  presented  to  the  House  of  Commons 
his  own  petition  that  the  Bill  might  pass.  The  last 
paragraph  of  this  manifesto  ran  :  "  May  it,  therefore, 
please  your  Honourable  House  to  protect  him  .  .  . 
and  (by  passing  your  Copyright  Bill)  forbid  all 
Thomas  Teggs,  and  other  extraneous  persons,  entirely 
unconcerned  in  this  adventure  of  his,  to  steal  from 
him  his  small  winnings,  for  a  space  of  sixty  years  at 
shortest.  After  sixty  years,  unless  your  Honourable 
House  provide  otherwise,  they  may  begin  to  steal." 
A  less  distinguished  writer  said  of  Tegg  :  "  He  lives 
on  the  ruin  of  others,  though  that  is  no  fault  or  affair 
of  his.  He  lives  on  the  ruin  of  publishers  ;  he  lives 
on  the  ruin  of  poor  authors  also  ;  their  losses  are  his 
gains ;  their  unfortunate  speculations — for  a  great 
many  authors  are  foolish  enough  nowadays  to  publish 
their   works   on   their    own    account — are   frequently 


290  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

those  which  turn  out  most  profitable  for  him."  Tegg 
flourished  exceedingly,  in  spite  of  clamour  and  evil- 
speaking,  and  in  the  end  purchased  a  country  house 
at  Norwood,  where  he  promised  himself  the  enjoy- 
ment of  a  large  garden,  though  he  scarcely  knew  a 
rose  from  a  rhododendron.  It  is  said  that  the 
character  of  Timothy  Twigg,  in  Hood's  novel 
"  Tylney  Hall,"  was  drawn  from  the  Cheapside  book- 
seller, who  died  in  1845. 

To  the  seeing  eye  Cheapside  still  offers  hints  of  its 
old  character,  and  many  a  detail  of  antiquity.  No 
house  in  it  can  be  older  than  the  one  numbered  37, 
at  the  corner  of  Friday  Street,  whose  front  is  still 
adorned  by  the  Chained  Swan,  taken  from  the 
Bohun  badge  of  Henry  IV.  The  same  device  may 
be  seen  over  the  brass  of  Eleanor  de  Bohun,  Duchess 
of  Gloucester,  in  Westminster  Abbey.  This  house 
certainly  goes  back  to  the  rebuilding  of  the  City  after 
the  Great  Fire,  but  there  is  a  tradition  (not  discouraged 
by  the  late  Mr.  Loftie)  that  it  is  the  part  of  a  building 
of  much  older  date.  It  is  said  that  the  Fire  spared 
this  fragment,  and  that  its  ravages  can  be  traced  on 
some  of  the  beams.  Cheapside  Cross  stood  nearly 
opposite  this  house.  Another  object  in  Cheapside  which 
no  topographer  is  permitted  to  ignore  is  the  Wood 
Street  plane-tree.  But  I  name  it  only  to  dispute 
its  popular  association  with  Wordsworth's  "  Reverie 
of  Poor  Susan."  For  the  thrush  of  the  poem  was 
caged,  no  tree  is  mentioned,  and  it  is  certain  that  the 
Wood  Street  plane  was  not  growing  in  Cheapside  in 
1797,  the  date  of  the  poem. 

There  is  perhaps  not  one  Londoner  in  a  hundred 
thousand — cabmen  included — who  would  not  be 
willing  to  make  oath  that  Poultry  is  the  last  street 
in  the  great  line  between  Charing  Cross  and  the  Bank. 


THE   STREET   OF  SONGS  AND   SIXPENCES     291 

But  this  is  not  so.  Mansion  House  Street  concludes 
the  series,  and  the  name  is  displayed  in  the  ordinary 
manner.  Mansion  House  Street  is  an  integral  part  of 
Heine's  ^'radial  artery/'  and  it  is  the  most  forgotten 
street  in  London.  So  forgotten  that  the  point  of  a 
famous  and  favourite  City  ballad  depends  on  this 
forgetfulness.  Yet  at  ward  meetings,  and  places 
where  they  sing,  "  The  Lord  Mayor's  Coachman  "  will 
still  be  called  for,  and  its  exposition  of  London  street 
nomenclature  will  be  accepted  with  nods  of  assenting 
sagacity.  John  undertook  to  drive  his  Lordship  from 
the  Mansion  House  to  Buckingham  Palace  without 
going  through  a  single  street.  He  accomplished  this 
by  taking  him  through  Poultry,  Cheapside,  St. 
Paul's,  Ludgate  Hill,  Old  Bailey,  Holborn,  Drury 
Lane,  Long  Acre,  St.  Martin's  Lane,  Trafalgar  Square, 
Pall  Mall,  and  the  Park. 

But  they  both  forgot  Mansion  House  Street.  It  was 
a  New  Zealander  who  showed  me  that  John  had  lost  his 
wager  before  he  had  well  started  to  win  it.  Many 
things  hidden  from  the  wise  and  prudent  Cockney  are 
revealed  to  our  Overseas  babes,  and  I  doubt  not  that 
one  of  these  will  yet  guide  my  tardy  steps  into  the 
church,  also  hereby,  of  St.  Stephen's,  Walbrook.  He 
will  tell  me  that  this  church  by  Wren,  which  the 
average  Londoner  never  sees,  is  a  miniature  St.  Paul's, 
exquisite  in  proportion  and  miniaturely  grand.  Accord- 
ing to  some  good  judges,  he  will  be  right.  In  return, 
I  shall  relate  to  him  the  grotesque  compliment  paid  in 
this  church,  and  afterwards  cancelled,  to  that  imposing 
"  blue,"  Mrs.  Catharine  Macaulay,  the  author  of  a 
"  History  of  England "  whose  appearance  in  the 
Charing  Cross  Road  would  now  cause  consternation 
among  the  booksellers.  Her  clerical  admirer,  the 
Rector  of  St.  Stephen's  who  lived  very  comfortably  at 


292  A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 

Bath,  placed  a  white  marble  statue  of  the  lady  within 
the  altar-rails  during  her  lifetime,  where  she  domi- 
nated the  sanctuary  as  the  Muse  of  History  with 
a  pen  in  her  hand  and  leaning  on  the  substantial 
volumes  of  her  own  work.  He  afterwards  removed  it, 
some  say  at  the  imperative  desire  of  his  bishop,  others 
because  the  lady  chose  a  second  husband  who  did  not 
live  at  Bath.  The  statue  was  returned  to  its  sculptor, 
Moore,  "  with  full  permission  to  do  whatever  he 
pleased  with  it,"  but  what  he  did  with  it  is  not 
history. 

We  are  now  in  the  City's  maelstrom,  and  by  all  the 
rules  I  ought  to  detain  the  reader  with  ejaculation  and 
reflection.  Instead,  let  us  cross  to  Lombard  Street. 
Or  if  you  rebel,  or  I  repent,  let  it  be  to  remember  that 
Richard  Jefferies,  standing  and  pondering  on  that  apex 
of  pavement  which  is  occupied  by  the  statue  of  Welling- 
ton, revolved  these  thoughts  :  "  Burning  in  the  sky, 
the  sun  shines  as  it  shone  on  me  in  the  solitary  valley, 
as  it  burned  on  when  the  earliest  cave  of  India  was 
carved.  Above  the  indistinguishable  roar  of  the  many 
feet  I  feel  the  presence  of  the  sun,  of  the  immense 
forces  of  the  universe,  and  beyond  these  the  sense  of 
the  eternal  now,  of  the  immortal.  Full  well  aware 
that  all  has  failed,  yet,  side  by  side  with  the  sadness  of 
that  knowledge,  there  lives  on  in  me  an  unquenchable 
belief,  thought  burning  like  the  sun,  that  there  is  yet 
something  to  be  found,  something  real,  something  to 
give  each  separate  personality  sunshine  and  flowers 
in  its  own  existence  now.  Something  to  shape  this 
million-handed  labour  to  an  end  and  outcome,  leaving 
accumulated  sunshine  and  flowers  to  those  who  shall 
succeed.  It  must  be  dragged  forth  by  might  of  thought 
from  the  immense  forces  of  the  universe." 

The  name  of  Lombard  Street  has  gone  round  the 


THE   STREET   OF   SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     293 

world  ;  it  might  be  Esperanto  for  wealth.  '^  All  Lom- 
bard Street  to  a  China  orange"  is  a  periphrasis  for 
magnificent  odds.  In  Arthur  Murphy's  comedy,  "The 
Citizen,"  first  played  in  1763,  this  phrase  occurs  in  a 
different  form.  Young  George  Philpot,  proposing  to 
drive  Corinna  to  Epsom  on  the  next  Sunday,  and 
boasting  that  he  is  as  good  a  four-in-hand  coachman 
as  any  in  England,  says :  *^  There  we  go  scrambling 
together  ;  reach  Epsom  in  an  hour  and  forty-three 
minutes  :  all  Lombard  Street  to  an  egg-shell  we  do." 
There  are  companion  phrases.  In  '^  Love's  Labour's 
Lost"  we  have  Biron  laying  Costard  his  "hat  to  a 
halfpenny";  in  "Richard  II"  the  unhappy  Queen 
exclaims  :  "  My  wretchedness  to  a  row  of  pins,"  and, 
earlier  than  Shakespeare,  in  "  Gammer  Gurton's 
Needle  "  :  "  my  cap  to  a  crown." 

Why  a  China  orange  ?  This  fruit,  unknown  to 
Covent  Garden,  was  apparently  poor  eating.  Some 
have  seen  in  its  selection  a  reference  to  the  Levantine 
Jews,  who  wore  yellow  turbans,  but  then  some  people 
see  Jews  as  trees  walking.  Bacon,  in  his  essay  on 
Usury,  says ;  "  They  say  that  Usurers  should  have 
Orange-tawney  bonnets,  because  they  doe  Judaize." 
As  the  street  took  its  proverb  from  the  luckless  Jews, 
so  it  took  its  name  from  the  Lombards,  who  succeeded 
them.  It  was  not  thought  permissible  to  draw  the 
teeth  of  Lombards,  who  were  only  ousted  when  Sir 
Richard  Gresham,  father  of  the  greater  Sir  Thomas, 
came  forward  with  a  "  disinterested  device  to  take  up 
all  the  money  in  Lombard  Street."  The  Lombards 
melted  away,  and  left  us  the  beautiful  word  "  bankrupt" 
a  corruption  of  bancarottUy  a  broken  bench.  In 
Florence  an  insolvent  trader  had  his  bench  or  money- 
changing  table  broken.  It  is  the  man  who  is  now 
said  to  suffer  that  fate. 


294  A   LONDONER'S    LONDON 

The  site  of  the  business  house  of  Su*  Thomas 
Gresham,  founder  of  the  Royal  Exchange,  is  now 
covered  by  Martin's  bank.  Gresham's  original  sign 
of  the  Grasshopper,  made  of  brass,  was  long  preserved 
here,  but  it  vanished  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Mr.  John  Biddulph  Martin  is  careful  to  explain  the  loss 
of  his  valuable  relic.  "  The  disappearance  of  the  sign 
is  not  attributable  to  any  want  of  reverence  on  the  part 
of  its  owners,  but  to  the  dishonesty  of  the  workmen 
who  rebuilt  the  house  in  1794-5.  It  is  said  that  it  was 
carefully  put  away  during  the  rebuilding,  but  was 
not  forthcoming  at  the  completion  of  the  works."  A 
replica  of  the  sign  now  glints  over  the  door. 

In  Lombard  Street,  in  a  house  on  the  present  branch 
post-office,  Sir  Robert  Viner  conducted  his  dealings 
with  Charles  II.  Here  he  entertained  the  King  at  his 
Mayoralty  banquet.  But  he  became  so  maudlin  loyal 
that  Charles  made  an  excuse  to  depart,  and  before  the 
company  realized  his  action  he  was  making  for  his 
coach.  Viner,  who  was  beyond  abashment,  rushed 
after  his  Sovereign,  caught  him  by  the  hand,  and  with 
a  vehement  oath  exclaimed  :  "  Sir,  you  shall  stay  and 
take  t'other  bottle."  And  he  who  never  said  a  foolish 
thing  or  did  a  wise  one,  trolled  the  line  of  an  old  song, 
*'  He  that's  drunk  is  as  great  as  a  king,"  and  returned 
to  the  table.  The  oddest  story  of  a  London  statue  is 
associated  with  Viner.  At  the  west  end  of  Lombard 
Street,  on  the  site  of  the  present  Mansion  House,  was 
the  Stocks  Market  for  the  sale  of  meat  and  fish,  and 
here  he  was  determined  to  plant  the  royal  effigy.  Being 
in  a  hurry,  or  combining  thrift  with  enthusiasm,  he 
used  for  the  purpose  a  statue  which  he  had  picked  up 
cheap  at  Leghorn,  a  work  in  white  marble  representing 
John  Sobieski,  the  King  of  Poland,  in  the  act  of 
trampling  on  a  Turk.     He  had  the  figure  of  the  Pole 


THE   STREET   OF  SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     295 

refashioned  till  it  became  that  of  Charles  of  England, 
while  the  wretched  Turk  was  rechiselled  into  Oliver 
Cromwell.  The  chaste  result  was  unveiled  on  Charles's 
birthday,  29  May,  1672,  and  it  adorned  the  Stocks 
Market  until  it  was  taken  down  in  1736,  when  the 
Mansion  House  was  built.  It  lay  as  lumber  in  an  inr.- 
yard  until  1779,  when  the  Corporation  presented  it  to 
one  of  Sir  Robert's  descendants.  The  remodelling  of 
the  statue  had  been  so  carelessly  done  that  Cromwell 
wore  a  turban  to  the  last.  Viner,  who  died  a  ruined 
man,  but  at  Windsor  Castle,  was  buried  in  the  Church 
of  St.  Mary  Woolnoth,  Lombard  Street.  His  mansion 
became  London's  first  General  Post  Office  in  1705, 
and  was  afterwards  known  as  the  Mail  Coach  Office. 
It  is  now  represented  by  the  Lombard  Street  branch 
post-office. 

The  sites  of  the  great  old  banks  in  Lombard  Street 
can  be  identified.  Thus,  the  house  No.  69  stands  on 
the  site  of  the  gold  smithery  and  bank  of  Alderman 
Edward  Backwell,  who  had  both  Oliver  Cromwell  and 
Charles  II  as  his  clients.  His  books,  still  in  existence, 
show  that  he  managed  the  accounts  of  Charles's 
Queen,  of  Queen  Henrietta  Maria,  and  of  Prince 
Rupert,  Henry  Cromwell,  James  Duke  of  Monmouth, 
the  Countess  of  Castlemaine,  Samuel  Pepys,  and  many 
other  notabilities. 

There  is  no  street  in  London  in  which  the  records 
of  sites  are  more  complete  than  in  Lombard  Street. 
Consequently  it  was  possible  nine  years  ago,  during 
the  festivities  of  the  Coronation  of  Edward  VII,  to 
adorn  the  street  with  many  of  its  ancient  signs. 
Twenty-three  of  these  were  hung  in  their  proper 
places,  and  a  larger  number  could  have  been 
correctly  placed.  Four  or  five  are  permanently  dis- 
played, with  the  happiest  effect. 


296  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

In  1830  Messrs.  Smith,  Payne,  and  Smiths  erected 
premises  at  No.  i  Lombard  Street,  the  foundation- 
stone  being  laid  by  the  youngest  partner,  and  the 
following  prayer  used:  *' I  invoke  the  Almighty 
Disposer  of  all  events  (without  whose  sanction  no 
human  exertions  can  avail)  to  look  down  with  favour 
and  protection  on  this  our  undertaking,  to  give  per- 
manence to  this  building  ;  and  to  maintain  the  pros- 
perity of  the  family  connected  with  it,  so  long  as  they 
shall  continue  their  affairs  with  fidelity,  and  industry, 
and  with  honour,  and  no  longer."  It  was  on  this  bank 
that  the  publishing  house  of  Longmans  drew  the 
cheque  for  ;^io,ooo  in  favour  of  Lord  Macaulay  in 
payment  for  his  "  History  of  England." 

An  instructive  portrait  is  drawn  by  Mr.  Hilton  Price 
of  Mr.  Fuller,  an  early  partner  in  the  bank  of  Fuller, 
Banbury  &  Co.,  of  No.  77  Lombard  Street.  He 
belonged  to  that  "  prim  class  of  bankers,  well  known 
in  the  last  century,  who  were  hardly  ever  absent  from 
their  desk  in  the  shop,  and  who  always  slept  over  the 
bank.  He  was  a  careful,  economical  man  who  always 
had  his  washing  done  at  home.  One  day  every  week, 
at  noon,  a  pint  of  beer  was  brought  in  and  placed  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  for  the  washerwoman,  washing- 
day  being  always  known  in  the  City  by  this  circum- 
stance. Once,  however,  this  pint  became  a  pot.  News 
of  the  unheard-of  innovation  quickly  spread,  and 
caused  quite  a  sensation  in  Lombard  Street  and 
Cornhill.  Indeed,  an  old  customer  called  on  him  to 
remonstrate  upon  his  extravagance,  telling  him  that, 
although  he  had  had  great  satisfaction  in  keeping  his 
accounts  with  him  till  then,  he  now  hardly  considered 
him  fit  to  take  charge  of  other  people's  money,  since 
he  did  not  know  how  to  take  care  of  his  own."  I  have 
little  doubt  that  this  banker  was  the  "  William  Fuller, 


THE   STREET   OF   SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     297 

Esq.,  banker,  of  Lombard  Street,"  of  whom  I  find  a 
singularly  unkind  obituary  notice  in  the  *^  Annual 
Register"  of  1800 — a  notice  which,  in  these  days, 
would  precipitate  an  action  for  libel.  He  is  charged 
with  having  exercised  ^^  the  most  penurious  economy," 
and  with  permitting  the  pleasure  of  money-getting  to 
"  reign  unrivalled  in  his  soul."  The  writer  has  to 
admit,  however,  that  he  founded  twelve  almshouses  in 
Hoxton.  The  interesting  statement  is  made  that  after 
his  death  the  remains  of  the  old  dead  banker  lay  in 
state  in  the  banking-house  parlour  in  Lombard  Street, 
and  here  we  realize  perfectly  the  changes  which  time 
has  brought  to  the  City. 

Lombard  Street  has  other  than  banking  associations. 
In  its  Plough  Court  was  born  Alexander  Pope.  The 
same  house  was  afterwards  occupied  by  William  Allen, 
the  Quaker  chemist  and  philanthropist.  Pope's  father, 
a  linen  merchant,  retired  to  the  country  at  the  age  of 
forty-six,  when  his  brilliant  but  crook-backed  boy  was 
only  twelve  years  of  age.  Of  Pope's  boyhood  in 
Lombard  Street  nothing  is  known,  yet  I  think  one 
may  reasonably  find  a  trace  of  it  in  his  mocking  verses, 
*'  To  Mr.  John  Moore,  Author  of  the  Celebrated  Worm 
Powder."  Moore  was  a  quack  doctor  living  in 
Abchurch  Lane,  which  leads  from  Lombard  Street 
into  Cannon  Street.  His  '^  learned  Friend  of  Abchurch 
Lane,"  Pope  calls  him.  "  John  Moore's  Worm 
Powders "  were  very  extensively  advertised  in  the 
newspapers,  with  testimonials  written  in  plainer  lan- 
guage than  would  be  tolerated  to-day.  Pope  asks 
Moore  to  remember  that  "all  humankind  are  worms." 

O  Learned  Friend  of  Abchurch  Lane, 

Who  sett'st  our  entrails  free  ; 
Vain  is  thy  art,  thy  powder  vain, 

Since  worm  shall  eat  e'en  thee. 


298  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

When  Moore  died  in  1737  the  '^  Gentleman's 
Magazine"  blandly  remarked  that  he  would  now 
"  verify  Mr.  Pope's  witty  observation  " — in  the  last 
quoted  line.     Other  times,  other  taste. 

In  Abchurch  Lane  Londoners  were  introduced  to 
French  cookery.  Here  was  Pontack's.  This  restau- 
rateur was  the  son  of  Arnaude  de  Pontac,  president  of 
the  parliament  of  Bordeaux,  and  when  he  set  up  his 
French  eating-house  in  Abchurch  Lane  he  named  it  the 
**  PontacHead,"  after  his  respected  parent,  from  whose 
vineyards  he  obtained  the  excellent  claret  for  which 
he  charged  Jonathan  Swift  seven  shillings  a  bottle. 
Pontack's  became  the  fashion,  and  the  Royal  Society 
dined  there  annually  for  many  years.  The  host  was  a 
man  of  many  parts,  and  Evelyn  gives  us  his  portrait. 
"  I  think  I  may  truly  say  of  him,  what  was  not  so  truly 
said  of  St.  Paul,  that  much  learning  had  made  him 
mad.  He  had  studied  well  in  philosophy,  but  chiefly 
the  rabbins,  and  was  exceedingly  addicted  to  caba- 
listic fancies,  an  eternal  babbler,  and  half-distracted  by 
reading  abundance  of  the  extravagant  Eastern  Jews. 
He  spoke  all  languages,  was  very  rich,  had  a  handsome 
personage,  and  was  well-bred,  about  forty-five  years  of 
age."  This  Crichton  had  mentality  left  for  the  making 
of  the  best  ragouts  and  sauces  in  London.  In 
Abchurch  Lane  he  would  hand  round  such  a  bill  of 
fare  as  the  following  :  "  Bird's-nest  soup  from  China ; 
a  ragout  of  fatted  snails  ;  bantam  pig  but  one  day  old 
stuffed  with  hard  row  and  ambergris ;  French  peas 
stewed  in  gravy  with  cheese  and  garlick  ;  an  incom- 
parable tart  of  frogs  and  forced  meat ;  cod,  with 
shrimp  sauce  ;  chickens  en  surprise^  not  two  hours 
from  the  shell" — and  much  else  en  surprise.  During 
the  South  Sea  Bubble  stockbrokers  came  to  Pontack's 
in  droves,  but  when  it  burst  they  returned  to  the  chop- 


THE  STREET  OF  SONGS  AND   SIXPENCES     299 

houses,  and  "  the  Jews  and  directors  no  longer  boiled 
Westphalia  hams  in  champagne  and  Burgundy."  The 
City  was  always  very  like  itself. 

Pontack's  successor  was  an  Englishwoman,  whose 
charms  -^nd  abilities  were  acquired  in  marriage  by  a 
Lombard  Street  banker.  To-day  the  finest  old  chop- 
houses  in  London  draw  their  clients  into  the  network 
of  lanes  and  courts  between  Lombard  Street  and 
Cornhill.  Here  are  Simpson's,  Thomas's  (at  Mr. 
Pickwick's  "  George  and  Vulture ")  and  Baker's  in 
Change  Alley,  close  to  Lombard  Street.  The  two 
bow-windows  of  Baker's  form  an  antique  frame  to  a 
heartsome  vision  of  pewters,  good  plain  food,  and 
snug  boxes. 

The  many  inlets  to  this  curious  region  are  easily 
missed,  and  only  on  the  spot  can  the  mysteries  of 
Pope's  Head  Alley,  Change  Alley,  Cowper's  Court, 
Birchin  Lane,  Ball  Court,  and  St.  Michael's  Alley 
be  studied.  Even  these  have  their  cunning  little  off- 
shoots. In  Birchin  Lane  you  discover  Bengal  Court 
and  Castle  Court,  and  there  are  other  complications. 
You  may  have  wondered  where  the  bank  messengers 
and  doorkeepers  of  the  City  obtain  their  gold-laced 
hats.  In  Castle  Court  there  is  a  small  shop  that  seems 
to  sell  nothing  but  these  glorious  head-pieces.  It  is 
startling,  in  Cowper's  Court,  suddenly  to  be  con- 
fronted by  the  words, 

THE  JERUSALEM, 

cut  handsomely  over  the  entrance  to  the  offices  of  the 
South  British  Insurance  Company.  This  was  once 
the  daily  resort  of  merchants  trading  to  the  East  Indies, 
China,  and  Australia.  The  name  Castle  Court  is 
perhaps  connected  with  the  sign  of  the  ^^Ship  and 
Castle,"  borne  as  early  as  1716  by  a  Cornhill  tavern. 


300  A    LONDONER'S    LONDON 

In  that  year,  on  Lord  Mayor's  Day,  a  Frenchman 
exhibited  a  "  sun  kitchen  "  on  the  roof  of  this  tavern 
in  the  presence  of  many  City  gentlemen.  He  roasted 
a  fowl  and  prepared  tea  and  coffee  by  using  the  sun's 
heat  as  reflected  from  a  combination  of  "  about  a 
hundred  small  looking  or  convex  glasses." 

In  St.  Michael's  Alley  the  Jamaica  Tavern  still 
represents  the  old  Jamaica  Coffee-house,  the  first  house 
in  London  in  which  coffee  was  publicly  drunk.  An 
entire  chapter,  and  a  long  one,  might  be  written 
about  these  old  mercantile  haunts.  The  story  of  the 
South  Sea  Bubble  centres  in  Change  Alley  and  in  the 
vanished  Garraway's  Coffee-house.  The  whole  mer- 
cantility  and  gossip  of  the  City  in  the  early  part  of 
the  eighteenth  century  seems  to  centre  here  and  in 
its  fellow  financial  coffee-house,  *'  Jonathan's,"  also  in 
Change  Alley.  It  was  over  the  door  of  the  New 
Jonathan's  Coffee-house  that  the  words  "The  Stock 
Exchange "  were  first  publicly  inscribed  and  seen  in 
London. 

Lucky  Corner,  that  wonderful  financial  headland 
from  which  the  clerks  of  the  Liverpool,  London,  and 
Globe  Insurance  office  now  look  on  the  City's  mael- 
strom, was  also  known  as  Pidding's  Corner.  This 
Pidding  was  a  lottery  agent.  But  it  was  Tom  Bish 
who  gave  the  Corner  its  first  name.  Bish  first  emerged 
from  obscurity  in  the  State  lottery  of  1796.  He  estab- 
lished himself  at  No.  4  Cornhill  in  1798,  and  from  that 
year  until  the  last  lottery  of  1826  he  was  the  greatest 
advertising  broker  in  the  country.  His  handbills  went 
everywhere,  recording  the  successes  of  his  clients  and 
inviting  speculation.  Like  his  neighbour,  Samuel 
Birch  the  confectioner,  he  frequently  burst  into 
poetry,  but  unlike  the  alderman  he  wrote  it  to  push 
his  business. 


THE   STREET   OF   SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     301 

For  nearly  twenty  years  Bish  exhausted  the  inge- 
nuities of  advertising,  and  finally,  when  the  last  of 
all  the  lotteries  was  announced  to  take  place  on 
18  October,  1826,  he  issued  a  manifesto,  in  which, 
more  in  anger  than  sorrow,  he  wrote  : — 

"  Mr.  Pitt,  whose  ability  in  matters  of  financial 
arrangements  few  will  question,  and  whose  morality  was 
proverbial,  would  not,  I  am  bold  to  say,  have  yielded 
to  an  outcry  against  a  tax,  the  continuing  of  which 
would  have  enabled  him  to  let  the  labourer  drink  his 
humble  beverage  at  a  reduced  price,  or  the  industrious 
artisan  to  pursue  his  occupation  by  a  cheaper  light. 

"  But  we  live  in  other  times — in  the  age  of  improve- 
ment ! 

"  To  stake  patrimonial  estates  at  hazard  or  ecarte,  in 
the  purlieus  of  St.  James's,  is  merely  amusement^  but  to 
purchase  a  ticket  in  the  Lottery,  by  which  a  man  may 
gain  an  estate  at  a  trifling  risk, — is — immoral  1  Nay, 
v^ithin  a  few  hours  of  the  time  I  write,  were  not  many 
of  our  nobility  and  senators,  some  of  whom,  I  dare  say, 
voted  against  Lotteries,  assembled  betting  thousands 
upon  a  horse-race  ?  " 

Tom's  tears  availed  not,  and  the  Cornhill  lottery 
contractors — Bish,  Martin,  Hazard,  and  the  rest — pre- 
pared to  put  up  their  shutters.  But  they  meant  to 
die  fighting,  and  incredible  efforts  were  made  in  the 
summer  of  1826  to  make  the  last  of  all  the  lotteries  a 
success.  Cars,  banners,  and  music  were  sent  round 
the  town  proclaiming  the  approaching  death  of  the 
Lottery,  and  the  last  chance  of  a  fortune.  The  effect, 
however,  was  funereal,  and  the  gigantic  octagonal  car 
was  everywhere  only  laughed  at  and  pelted  with 
stones  and  oyster-shells.  The  Lottery  expired  on  the 
appointed  date  in  Cooper's  Hall,  Basinghall  Street, 
and  London  did  not  grieve. 


302  A    LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Guy  the  bookseller  and  founder  of  Guy's  Hospital 
kept  his  shop  at  Lucky  Corner — the  junction  of 
Lombard  Street  and  Cornhill.  Here  he  sold  the  first 
Bibles  printed  at  Oxford,  and  published  school-books 
and  theological  works.  He  had  other  ways,  it  may 
be  guessed,  of  growing  rich.  One  of  them  is  un- 
pleasantly set  forth  by  Maitland  :  "  England  being 
engaged  in  an  expensive  war  against  France,  the  poor 
seamen  on  board  the  Royal  Navy  for  many  years, 
instead  of  money,  received  tickets  for  their  pay,  which 
these  necessitous  but  very  useful  men  were  obliged  to 
dispose  of  at  thirty,  forty,  and  sometimes  fifty  in  the 
hundred  discount.  Mr.  Guy,  discovering  the  sweets 
of  this  traffic,  became  an  early  dealer  therein." 

Mr.  Guy  also  speculated  with  great  shrewdness,  and 
was  one  of  the  few  men  who  bought  and  sold  South 
Sea  stock  at  the  right  time.  He  gathered  money  and 
spent  little.  He  dined  on  his  shop-counter,  spreading 
a  newspaper  for  table-cloth.  Such  was  the  man  who 
founded  one  of  the  noblest  of  London  charities.  A 
censorious  world  tries  to  account  for  the  anomaly, 
and  the  story  that  found  favour  was  this :  Guy  fell 
in  love  with  his  maid-servant,  and  in  view  of  this 
event  he  had  so  far  expanded  his  soul  as  to  order 
that  the  pavement  in  front  of  his  shop  should  be 
repaired  as  far  as  a  particular  stone  which  he  marked. 
The  girl,  while  her  master  was  out,  watched  the  paviors 
at  work,  and  observing  a  broken  place  she  asked 
them  not  to  miss  it.  They  replied  that  Mr.  Guy  had 
ordered  them  to  go  no  farther  than  the  marked  stone. 
"  Well,"  she  replied,  "  mend  it ;  tell  him  I  bade  you, 
and  I  know  he  will  not  be  angry."  But  the  poor  girl 
had  miscalculated.  Mr.  Guy  was  so  angry  that  he 
broke  off  his  engagement,  renounced  all  idea  of 
marrying,  and  took  to  founding  hospitals  and  alms- 


THE    STREET   OF    SONGS   AND    SIXPENCES     303 

houses.  He  died  at  the  age  of  eighty,  after  giving 
immense  sums  to  charity  and  endowing  his  great 
hospital  with  more  than  ;^200,ooo. 

King  WiUiam  Street  is  modern,  and  its  only  charm 
is  its  relation  to  the  Monument,  but  that  is  much. 
I  have  an  old  kindness  for  the  Monument  region,  to 
which  one  comes  with  uplifted  eye  and  a  moved  heart 
across  London  Bridge.  From  the  bridge  one  can 
see  the  City  ;  other  approaches  give  vista,  here  is 
panorama.  The  air  is  laden  with  the  scents  of  pro- 
duce. In  Mincing  Lane  the  hot  odour  of  roasted 
sample  coffee  is  seldom  absent ;  the  air  of  Eastcheap 
is  haunted  by  tea  scents ;  in  St.  Mary-at-Hill  you 
descend  through  pepper  to  fish ;  and  in  Lower 
Thames  Street  the  emanations  of  drysaltery  mingle 
with  oranges  and  something  only  to  be  called  otto 
of  steamboat. 

All  these  scents  and  sneezes  must  have  been  familiar 
to  the  inhabitants  of  Todgers's  commercial  boarding- 
house  under  the  Monument,  though  for  them  there 
was  a  special  intimation  of  bruised  oranges  in  the 
cellars  of  their  wonderful  labyrinth.  The  zest  and 
detail  of  that  description  in  the  ninth  chapter  of 
*^  Martin  Chuzzlewit "  are  unusual,  even  in  Dickens. 
His  description  of  Todgers's — its  mere  situation  and 
externals — fill  four  and  a  half  columns  in  the  edition 
of  the  novel  before  me.  No  writer  dare  now  attempt 
such  a  thing.  Yet  we  become  dead  to  the  rest  of  the 
world  as  the  tortuous,  intensive,  fantastic,  and  evoca- 
tive lines  flow  on.  Dickens  had  intended  to  open 
*'  Martin  Chuzzlewit "  in  the  lantern  of  a  lighthouse 
— to  be  precise,  in  the  Longships,  off  Land's  End. 
It  is  odd,  then,  that  the  first  deep-bitten  passage  in 
the  story  should  be  this  description  of  a  labyrinth  of 
dark  lanes  and  blind  alleys  close  to  the  Monument. 


304  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

"  You  couldn't  walk  about  in  Todgers's  neighbour- 
hood as  you  could  in  any  other  neighbourhood.  You 
groped  your  way  for  an  hour  between  lanes  and 
byways  and  courtyards  and  passages,  and  never  once 
emerged  upon  anything  that  might  reasonably  be 
called  a  street.  A  kind  of  resigned  distraction  came 
over  the  stranger  as  he  trod  those  devious  mazes,  and, 
giving  himself  up  for  lost,  went  in  and  out  and  round 
about  and  quietly  turned  back  again  when  he  came  to 
a  dead  wall  or  was  stopped  by  an  iron  railing,  and  felt 
that  the  means  of  escape  might  possibly  present  them- 
selves in  their  own  good  time,  but  that  to  anticipate 
them  was  hopeless.  Instances  were  known  of  people 
who,  being  asked  to  dine  at  Todgers's,  had  travelled 
round  and  round  it  for  a  weary  time,  with  its  very 
chimney-pots  in  view ;  and  finding  it,  at  last,  impos- 
sible of  attainment,  had  gone  home  again  with  a  gentle 
melancholy  on  their  spirits,  tranquil  and  uncomplain- 
ing." 

The  Todgers  neighbourhood  is  fixed  by  one  graphic 
touch.  On  the  roof  of  the  boarding-house  there  was  a 
sort  of  terrace,  with  old  posts  and  fragments  of  clothes- 
lines, and  "  two  or  three  tea-chests,  full  of  earth,  with 
forgotten  plants  in  them,  like  old  walking-sticks." 
This  observatory  commanded  a  view  of  chaotic  roofs, 
across  which,  on  a  bright  day,  fell  the  shadow  of  the 
Monument ;  ^'  and  turning  round,  the  tall  original  was 
close  behind  you,  with  every  hair  erect  upon  his 
golden  head,  as  if  the  doings  of  the  city  frightened 
him."  Fragments  of  the  real  Todgersdon  survive  in 
Botolph  Alley,  running  between  Love  Lane  and 
Botolph  Lane.  These  two  lanes,  with  Pudding  Lane 
and  St.  Mary  Hill,  are  the  arteries,  if  they  can  be 
called  such,  of  the  dense  precinct  which  **  hemmed 
Todgers's  round,  and  hustled  it,  and  crushed  it,  and 


PUDDING    LANE   AND   THE    MONUMENT 

THE   EXISTENCE,    EVEN    FIFTY   YEARS    AGO,    OF    A   TODGERS    BOARDING-HOUSE   UNDER 
THE   MONUMENT,   IN    THAT   LAIR    OF   CRANES,   CARTS,   FISH-SMELLS,   OATHS  AND   COL- 
LISIONS   IS   SCARCELY   CREDIBLE      (P.  305) 


THE  STREET  OF   SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES    305 

stuck  its  brick-and-mortar  into  it,  and  kept  the  air 
from  it,  and  stood  perpetually  between  it  and  the 
light."  Love  Lane  in  its  best  hours  reminds  one  of 
the  fishing  quarter  of  Lowestoft.  Its  cavernous  cellars 
and  unexpected  lofts,  its  tanks  of  live  eels,  its  dripping 
boxes  that  were  yesterday  in  Grimsby  and  Blyth,  its 
baskets  of  ice  glistening  on  the  heads  of  young 
Atlases,  give  one  a  sense  of  the  sea  which  is  completed 
by  the  wave-like  slosh  of  besoms  on  asphalt  floors. 

The  way  in  which  London  hugs  and  secretes  the 
character  of  an  old  neighbourhood — not  really  parting 
with  its  features  when  the  farewells  are  said — is  known 
to  her  lovers.  You  would  say  that  the  existence,  even 
fifty  years  ago,  of  a  Todgers  boarding-house  under 
the  Monument,  in  that  lair  of  cranes,  carts,  fish-smells, 
oaths,  and  collisions,  is  scarcely  credible.  Yet  to-day 
you  have  only  to  enter  Swan  Lane,  hard  by,  to  find  a 
row  of  such  houses  of  the  Todgers  type,  shuttered, 
curtained,  serene  in  their  obscure  decency. 

It  is  not  necessary,  but  I  have  the  inclination  to 
believe  that  Dickens  knew  this  neighbourhood  in 
some  specially  intimate  way.  It  is  deeply  etched  in 
another  of  his  early  novels,  for  it  was  to  a  house 
by  the  river-side  that  Newman  Noggs  inducted  Mrs. 
Nickleby  and  Kate  when  they  came  under  the  power 
of  Ralph  Nickleby.  Their  appointed  home  was  '^  a 
large  old  dingy  house  in  Thames  Street,  the  doors  and 
windows  of  which  were  so  bespattered  with  mud,  that 
it  would  have  appeared  to  have  been  uninhabited  for 
years.  .  .  .  Old  and  gloomy,  and  black,  in  truth  it 
was,  and  sullen  and  dark  were  the  rooms,  once  so 
bustling  with  life  and  enterprise.  There  was  a  wharf 
behind  opening  on  the  Thames.  An  empty  dog- 
kennel,  some  bones  of  animals,  fragments  of  iron 
hoops,  and  staves  of  old  casks,  lay  strewn  about,  but 


3o6  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

no  life  was  stirring  here.     It  was  a  picture  of  cold, 
silent  decay." 

I  can  indulge  the  fancy  that  the  true  spring,  the 
primum  mobile,  of  Dickens's  inspiration  was  place,  not 
personality  ;  that  his  first  relationship  with  the  material 
of  his  art  was  with  streets,  houses,  and  precincts, 
which  communicated  to  him  a  sense  of  the  human 
personalities  they  had  absorbed,  and  awoke  a  respon- 
sive impulse  to  restore  to  them  the  warmth  and  quality 
of  men  and  women.  There  is  an  intimacy  between 
his  characters  and  the  places  from  which  they  emerge 
that  is  unexampled  in  any  other  novelist.  Did  he,  in  a 
manner,  evoke  characters  from  environments  ?  It  may 
be  the  illusion  of  his  art,  but  I  can  imagine  that  he 
materialized  Ralph  Nickleby  from  the  very  aura  of 
Golden  Square,  that  he  had  to  think  of  Goswell  Street 
before  he  could  shape  his  own  Pickwick  (as  distinct 
from  Chapman  and  Hall's)  and  that  in  the  Monument 
labyrinth  he  actually  groped  after  Jenkins.  Quilp  is 
the  very  emanation  of  rascally  foreshores  and  rotting 
wharves.  There  is  a  story  of  Dickens's  boyhood  to 
which  I  give  far  more  importance  than  did  Forster,  at 
the  risk  of  seeming  fanciful.  As  a  boy  in  Bayham  Street 
he  read  George  Colman's  "  Broad  Grins."  The  book, 
says  Forster,  "  seized  his  fancy  very  much,  and  he  was 
so  impressed  by  its  description  of  Covent  Garden  in  the 
piece  called  the  *  Elder  Brother '  that  he  stole  down  to 
the  market  by  himself  to  compare  it  with  the  book. 
He  remembered,  as  he  said  in  telling  me  this,  snuffing 
up  the  flavour  of  the  faded  cahhage-leaves,  as  if  it  were 
the  very  breath  of  comic  fiction,'*  On  this  Forster 
remarks,  "  Nor  was  he  far  wrong,  as  comic  fiction 
then,  and  for  some  time  after,  was  ;  it  was  reserved  for 
himself  to  give  sweeter  and  fresher  breath  to  it."  It 
was,  but  the  comment  seems  inadequate. 


THE  STREET  OF  SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     307 

We  are  on  ground  where  no  genius  is  required  to 
evoke  spirit  from  matter.  What  overcoming  lang- 
synes  of  London,  ^'  felt  in  the  blood  and  felt  along 
the  heart/'  abide  in  the  shadows  of  London  Bridge  ! 
Millions  of  children  who  never  saw  London  have 
helped  to  build  up  London  Bridge.  How  old  the 
song  is,  and  how  it  went  originally,  are  points  on 
which  the  learned  do  not  agree,  but  it  has  been  con- 
jectured that  the  first  line,  "  London  Bridge  is  broken 
down,"  may  go  back  to  the  terrible  "battle  of  the 
bridge "  fought  between  the  Danish  occupiers  of 
London  and  King  Olaf  of  Norway.  An  Icelandic 
scald  of  the  thirteenth  century  begins  the  ballad  of 
the  fight  thus  : — 

London  Bridge  is  broken  down, 
Gold  is  won,  and  bright  renown  ; 

Shields  resounding. 

War  horns  sounding, 
Hildur  shooting  in  the  din  ; 

Arrows  singing, 

Mail-coats  ringing, 
Odin  makes  our  Olaf  win. 

More  prosaically  the  song  has  been  traced  to  a 
supposed  breakdown  of  the  Bridge,  when  London 
Bridge  lying  in  ruins,  the  office  of  Bridge  Master 
was  vacant,  and  his  power  over  the  River  Lea — for 
it  is  doubtless  that  river  which  is  celebrated  in  the 
refrain  *^  Dance  o'er  my  Lady  Lea  " — was  for  a  while 
at  an  end.  All  this  is  uncertain,  but  the  song  has 
been  a  nursery-rhyme  for  centuries.  A  correspondent 
of  the  "Gentleman's  Magazine"  of  September,  1823, 
related  that  in  childhood  he  heard  it  warbled  by  a 
lady  who  was  born  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II. 
Again,  "  London  Bridge  is  Fallen  Down  "  is  declared 
to  be  an  old  Christmas  carol  belonging  especially  to 


3o8  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

Newcastle-on-Tyne,  whose  old  stone  bridge  bore  a 
singular  resemblance  on  a  small  scale  to  London 
Bridge.     It  began  : — 

Dame,  get  up  and  bake  your  pies, 
On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning, 

to  which  she  answers  mournfully — 

London  Bridge  is  fallen  down. 
On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning, 

the  inference  being  that  until  the  Bridge  was  rebuilt 
on  the  Thames,  she  could  not — on  account  of  some 
telepathic  obstruction — make  pastry  on  the  Tyne. 

The  proverbial  philosophy  of  London  Bridge  is 
full  of  interest.  The  saying  that  the  bridge  is  *'  built 
upon  wool-packs  refers  to  the  impost  on  wool  which 
helped  to  defray  its  cost.  A  similar  basis,  in  fact,  exists 
for  the  saying  that  London  Bridge  was  made  for  wise 
men  to  go  over  and  fools  to  go  under.  This  harks 
us  back  to  the  danger  which  for  centuries  beset  the 
'^shooting"  of  the  bridge  by  small  boats  and  wherries. 
The  passage  of  the  water  was  obstructed,  not  only 
by  the  narrowness  of  the  arches,  but  by  corn-mills 
and  water-works  built  in  some  of  the  openings.  The 
other  arches  were  narrow ;  at  flood-tide  passengers 
going  down  the  river  would  often  disembark  rather 
than  take  the  risk  of  the  rapids  under  the  bridge. 
Dr.  Johnson  and  Boswell  did  this  on  30  July,  1763, 
when  they  had  hired  a  sculler  at  the  Temple  Stairs 
for  an  excursion  to  Greenwich.  Noting  the  incident, 
John  Wilson  Croker  relates  a  personal  experience. 
*^  I  once  had  the  honour  of  attending  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  York  on  a  party  down  the  river,  and 
we  were  about  to  land  to  allow  the  barge   to   shoot 


THE   STREET   OF   SONGS   AND   SIXPENCES     309 

the  bridge.  The  Duchess  asked  *  Why  ? '  and  being 
told  that  it  was  on  account  of  the  danger,  positively 
refused  to  get  out  of  the  boat,  and  insisted  on 
shooting,  which  we  reluctantly  did ;  but  we  shipped 
a  good  deal  of  water,  and  all  got  very  wet,  Her 
Royal  Highness  showing  not  the  least  alarm  or 
regret."  Many  young  Londoners,  male  and  female, 
were  of  the  same  mind  as  the  Duchess.  Hence 
Canning's  lines  ; — 

"  Shoot  we  the  Bridge  I " — the  renturous  boatmen  cry — 
"Shoot  we  the  Bridge!" — the  exulting  fare  reply. 

with  the  result  that — 

Drench'd  each  smart  garb,  and  clogg'd  each  struggling  limb, 
Far  o'er  the  stream  the  Cockneys  sink  or  swim. 

Other  old  sayings  about  London  Bridge  are  numerous : 
"Take  one  of  the  heads  on  London  Bridge,  able 
neither  to  speak  nor  breathe." — "  It  is  impossible  to 
stop  the  tide  at  London  Bridge." — "  If  London  Bridge 
had  fewer  eyes  (i.e.,  fewer  arches)  it  would  see  better." 
London  Bridge,  too,  is  the  traditional  Pisgah  from 
which  to  view  the  Londoners ;  nor  have  railway 
bridges,  tunnels,  and  tubes  deprived  it  of  its  morning 
and  evening  supremacy.  In  all  cities  this  is  the 
character  of  the  bridge.  There,  between  sky  and 
water,  in  the  unwonted  light,  one  sees  faces 

Praising,  reviling. 

Worst  head  and  best  head. 
Past  me  defiling, 

Never  arrested, 
Wanters,  abounders, 

March  in  gay  mixture. 
Men,  my  surrounders  ! 

I  am  the  fixture. 


310  A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 

And  it  is  on  London  Bridge,  if  anywhere,  that  we 
may  seek  for  the  synthetic  London  expression,  the 
form  and  pressure  of  the  town  in  the  eyes  and 
bearing  of  its  children.  The  normal  expression  on  the 
Londoner's  face  has  been  interpreted  by  Mrs.  Meynell 
in  one  of  her  penetrating  essays  :  ^^  If  there  is  a  look 
of  human  eyes  that  tells  of  perpetual  loneliness,  so 
there  is  also  the  familiar  look  that  is  the  sign  of 
perpetual  crowds.  It  is  the  London  expression,  and, 
in  its  way,  the  Paris  expression.  It  is  the  quickly 
caught,  though  not  interested,  look,  the  dull  but  ready 
glance  of  those  who  do  not  know  of  their  forfeited 
place  apart ;  who  have  neither  the  open  secret  nor 
the  close;  no  reserve,  no  need  of  refuge,  no  flight 
nor  impulse  of  flight ;  no  moods  but  what  they  may 
brave  out  in  the  street,  no  hope  of  news  from  solitary 
counsels." 

This  is  admirably  said,  and  the  only  qualification 
it  can  need  is  that  it  must  not  be  applied  to  the  whole 
Londoner,  who  is  one  man  on  London  Bridge  and 
more  or  less  another  man  in  the  suburb.  It  is  in  the 
street  that  the  Londoner  puts  on  the  outward  signs 
of  that  inward  attitude  of  defence  against  the  calls 
which  faces  and  incidents  in  the  streets  make  on 
him.  His  ^Mull  but  ready  glance"  is  that  share  of 
his  unmiraculous  loaves  and  fishes  which  experience 
has  taught  him  that  he  can  afford  to  give  you  among 
four  million  rivals.  De  Quincey  thought  that  his 
visions,  under  opium,  of  innumerable  human  faces 
might  have  had  their  origin  in  his  London  life.  We 
who  do  not  eat  opium,  but  are  London-pent,  must 
somehow  conquer  or  evade  that  tyranny  of  the  human 
face.  Hence  this  quick,  dull  glance — quick  with  the 
quickness  of  the  eye,  but  dull  with  the  grudgings 
of   a  brain  that  would  weary  in  an  hour's  sustained 


THE   STREET  OF  SONGS  AND   SIXPENCES     311 

alertness.  On  the  other  hand  this  wary  retreat 
from  alertness  is  itself  a  strain,  and  that  is  why  the 
Londoner,  who  turns  a  fish-like  eye  on  the  mass  of 
his  fellow-townsmen,  was  easily  persuaded  that  the 
lion  on  Northumberland  House  wagged  its  tail. 

On  London  Bridge  it  is  that  London  remembers  the 
days  of  her  youth  while  she  gives  thanks  in  her  sweat 
that  her  natural  force  is  not  abated.  The  air  is  full  of 
hum  and  jingle,  yet  the  silence  of  the  natural  river  is  felt 
under  the  syrens  and  chains,  and  even  while  we  see 
the  oranges  passing  from  boat  to  trolley  the  water 
bemuses  us  with  the  lapping  light  and  grey  tracts  that 
Chaucer  knew.  And  you  wish  to  sense  the  long  story 
of  the  haven,  if  you  can  do  so  without  making  speeches 
out  of  books,  and  if  the  savour  of  it  will  come  to  you 
in  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  in  the  rattle  of  the  crane,  or 
in  the  glint  of  a  pigeon's  wing  when  it  swerves  ?  .  .  . 
Ah,  well !  come  and  look  at  the  Pool  from  Rother- 
hithe,  where  there  is  peace.  There,  opposite  Wapping 
Old  Stairs,  among  warehouse,  cranes,  masts,  funnels, 
rigging,  and  Rotherhithe,  there  is  a  wooden  gallery. 

The  little  inn  wears  it  like  a  girdle.  It  overhangs 
the  water  at  high  tide  and  the  mud  at  low  ;  the  lighters 
huddle  near  it  as  if  it  were  their  friend.  It  is  the  eye 
of  a  slight  promontory  and  looks  over  to  the  league- 
long  wharves  and  warehouses  which  are  Wapping  and 
Shadwell  and  Stepney,  but  which,  under  the  evening 
sky,  are  serene  and  poised  as  a  forest. 

A  steamship  is  still  unloading  her  cargo  of  crude 
sugar  into  Wapping.  A  lighter  receives  them  from 
her  high  deck,  and  close  to  the  warehouse  another 
lighter  is  yielding  its  load  to  a  crane  that  lowers  its 
chain  sixty  feet.  Always  when  you  look  a  yellow 
package  is  rising  to  the  little  doorway  on  the  top  floor. 
It  disappears. 


312  A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 

The  grain  barge  at  our  side  is  in  the  river,  but  not 
of  it.  It  belongs  to  the  canal,  and  those  gaudy 
lozenges  of  colour  on  the  uprights  which  support  its 
longitudinal  bridge,  as  long  nearly  as  itself,  are  a 
quarter  of  a  century  behind  Thames  and  Medway 
conventions.  The  grain  barge  has  come  across  from 
the  Regent's  Canal  Dock  to  the  granaries,  and  it  will 
soon  be  on  another  crawl  to  the  West  Country.  I 
think  that  the  barge  wife,  short,  tubby,  and  tanned, 
and  wearing  a  white  apron  and  a  sun-bonnet,  likes  the 
canal  best.  London's  gate  looms  behind  the  sun- 
bonnet,  and  St.  Paul's  carries  the  imagination  on,  but 
London  never  disturbed  this  woman.  She  sits  in  the 
stern  with  her  back  to  Babylon — a  mighty  knitter 
before  the  Lord. 

Look  at  these  Jersey  and  Cornwall  schooners, 
hugging  each  other  like  sisters.  There  is  something 
primitive  about  them — a  lingering  likeness  to  crafts 
that  rotted  about  the  time  Redriff  became  Rotherhithe 
and  Gulliver  took  ship  in  the  "Antelope" — Captain 
William  Pritchard — the  very  "Antelope,"  mayhap,  that 
was  afterwards  wrecked  off  the  Pellews  under  Captain 
Wilson.  Wilson  brought  back  his  Prince  Lee  Boo 
to  get  civilization,  but  he  got  smallpox  with  it,  and  he 
lies  there  among  the  mariners  under  the  old  brick 
tower  in  the  leafy  churchyard. 

Boys  are  bathing  from  Old  Wapping  Stairs. 

How  large  and  free,  within  the  limits  of  an  order 
too  old  to  be  felt,  is  all  this  by-play  and  leisure  at  the 
water-gate  of  London  I  And  yonder,  in  remote  quiet- 
ness, rise  those  shapes  of  Tower,  Monument,  Bridge, 
and  Dome  that  are  the  symbols  of  this  city  through 
all  the  world.  If  they  lack  the  grace  of  collective 
motherhood,  if  they  assimilate  rather  with  the  clouds 
than  the  streets,  it  is  because  London  has  attained  to 


THE  STREET  OF  SONGS  AND   SIXPENCES    313 

dimensions  in  which  her  entity  is  lost  in  space,  as  her 
origin  in  time.  Only  in  her  sleep,  in  the  suspension 
of  all  that  ^'  mighty  heart/'  has  a  great  poet  envisaged 
the  unity  of  London.  Yet  here,  and  at  last,  one  has 
some  illusion  of  the  whole.  Those  white-fleshed  boys, 
in  whose  veins  the  life-blood  of  London  is  continued 
— let  us  think  that  they  are  playing  in  the  dusk  of  a 
maternal  city,  by  a  river  whose  image  and  tradition  are 
in  every  heart.  Let  the  Angel  which  redeems  London 
from  evil  bless  the  lads,  and  let  London's  name  be 
named  on  them,  and  the  names  that  our  fathers  knew, 
and  let  them  grow  into  a  multitude  in  the  midst  of 
the  earth. 


INDEX 


Abbey,  first  sight  of  Westminster, 
i86 

Abchurch  Lane,  Pope's  "  learned 
friend"  of,  297-8 

Academy,  Royal,  at  Somerset 
House,  172-4 

Adam  and  Eve  Tavern,  134 

Addison,  Joseph,  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  198 

Adelphi,  art  in  the,  174 

Aders,  Charles,  his  house  in 
Euston  Grove,  68 

Admiralty,  the,  207 

Advertisement-writing,  art  of, 
226-7 

Agar  Town,  71 

Albany  Street,  127-9 

"  Alexander  the  Corrector,"  36 

Amsterdam  and  London  com- 
pared, 282 

Andre,  Major,  mutilations  of  his 
monument  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  191 

Anatomy  Act  of  1832,  85 

"  Angel  "  the,  at  Islington,  35 

Anne,  Queen,  her  death,  43,  89 

Antiquities  of  London,  minor, 
151-4 

Apollo  Room,  the,  in  Fleet 
Street,  237 

Applewoman  and  Lord  Chan- 
cellor Bathurst,  217 

Apsley  House,  216-17 

Archway  in  Sardinia  Street,  146 


Arne,  Dr.,   in  Craven  Buildings, 

144 
Art  for  the  people,  73-7 
Artillery  Row,  Milton  in,  285 
Auctioneer,  a  great,  96-8 
Auctions  at  Sotheby's,  etc.,  170 
Austin  Friars,  annals  of,  88-92 
the  Dutch  church  in,  94 

Bacon,  R.A.,  John,    and  Queen 

Charlotte,  119 
Bailiff's  daughter  of  Islington,  38 
Baillie,  Joanna,  7,  74 
Banker,  an  eccentric,  296-7 
Bank  robbery  in  Cornhill,  10 1 
"  Bankrupt,"  origin  of  word,  293 
Barbauld,  Mrs.,  7 
Barclay,   David,  entertains  kings 

in  Cheapside,  285 
Barry,    Charles,  and    Houses    of 

Parliament,  202-5 
Batson's  Coffee-house,  89 
Bayham  Street,  Dickens  in,  132 
Beaconsfield,  Lord,  in  Park  Lane, 

276-7 
Bedford,  Duke  of,  in  1756,  56 
Bedford  House,  56-7 

Row,  old  water-pipes  in,  152 

"  Bedroom,"        Dr.        Gardner's 

"  last  and  best,"  84 
'*  Bell  and  Crown,"  Holborn,  5 
Bewick,   Thomas,    his    dislike  of 

London,  29 
Birch,  '•  Pattypan,"  107-8 


315 


3i6 


A   LONDONER'S  LONDON 


Bird,  Francis,  the  sculptor,  ii8 

Birds  in  Westminster  Abbey,  190 

Bish,  Tom,  300 

Blake,  William,  remarkable  con- 
versation with,  69 

"  Blind  Fiddler,"  Wilkie's,  drawn 
from  a  London  street  musician, 

134 
Bloomsbury,  author's  lines  on,  55 

the  '•  bars"  in,  5,  54 

growth  of,  57-9 

Blue    Posts    Tavern    in    Totten- 
ham Court  Road,  136 
Body-snatchers,  the,  84-5 
Bohun,  Edward,  his  dying  words, 

94 
Bond,  Sir  Thomas,  371 
Bond  Street,  271-3 
Book  auctions  at  Sotheby's,  170 
Books,  second-hand,  251-4 
Booksellers'  Row,  8-9 
Borrow,    George,    ue     Byron's 

funeral,  136-7 
Bozier's  Court,  135-6 
Bradbury,  Thomas,  and  death  of 

Queen  Anne,  43 
Brasbridge,  Joseph,  his  chronicles 

of  Fleet  Street,  222-8 
Bread  Street,  Milton  born  in,  285-6 
Briggs,  Henry,  86 
Bright,  John,   famous  speech  of, 

1 6 1-2 
British     Coffee-house,     and     its 

Scotch  frequenters,  256 
"  British  College  of  Health,"  72 
Brixton,  desertion  of,  21 
Broad  Street,  E.C.,  79-88 
Brocklesby,  Dr.  Richard,  180-1 
Brydges,  Sir  Egerton,  on  •'  Childe 

Harold,"  239-40 
Buchanan,  Robert,  his  arrival  in 

London,  30 
Buckingham  House,  213 
Buckingham    Palace,    story    of, 

212-15 


Buckinghamshire,  Duchess  of,  her 
bargaining  with  Royalty,  213-14 

Buckland,  Frank,  in  Albany 
Street,  128-9 

"  Bull  and  Bush,"  the,  at  Hamp- 
stead,  6 

Bull  and  Mouth  Tavern,  4 

Bull,  Dr.  John,  the  organist, 
curious  story  of,  87-8 

Bunhill  Fields  burial-ground,  43 

Bunyan's  ** Pilgrim's  Progress" 
published  in  Poultry,  287 

Burne-Jones,  Edward,  and  Lon- 
don life,  31-2 

in  Red  Lion  Square,  64-5 

Burney,  Fanny,  at  Buckingham 
House,  214-15 

her  wedding,  147 

Burns,  Right  Hon.  John,  on 
Napoleon's  alleged  visit  to 
London,  248-50 

Burton  Crescent,  its  name,  57 

Burton,  Decimus,  in  Bloomsbury, 

57 

Button's  cook-shop.  Fleet  Street, 
218-19 

Byron,  Lord,  his  admiration  of 
'•  The  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes,"  242 

his  funeral,  136-7,  199-201 

his  London,  241-2 

in  Bond  Street,  272-3 

in  Fleet  Street,  239-41 

in  Strand,  160 

on  London's  '•  first  ap- 
pearance," 280 

Cabbage-leaves    and    comedy, 

306 
Cadell,  Thomas,  in   the    Strand, 

168-9 
Caesar,  Julius,  in  St.  Pancras,  71 
Camden  Passage,  Islington,  36 
Camden  Town,  129-31 
Camelford  House,  274 


INDEX 


317 


Campbell,  Thomas,  his  ludicrous 
adventure  in  Regent  Street, 
270-1 

"  Campo  Santo  of  Nonconfor- 
mity," the,  43 

Canaletto,  his  view  of  London 
from  Pentonville,  53 

Candle-snuffing  expert,  a,  226 

Canonbury  Tower,  37 

Capper's  Farm,  61 

Caricaturists  of  "  country  boxes," 

13 
Carlton    House,    remarkable  as- 
sembly at,  211 
Carlyle,  Thomas,    in    Claremont 

Square,  52-3 
at  Eraser's,  in  Regent  Street, 

267-70 

on  "gigs,"  148-9 

on     "  Thomas    Teggs    and 

other  extraneous  persons,"  289 
Carts,    "  wonderful    dignity "    of 

London,  11 
Cartwright,      Major     John,     his 

statue  in  Bloomsbury,  57 
Ceracchi,  Giuseppe,  the  sculptor, 

1 18-19 
Cervetto,  "  Old  Nosey,"  263-4 
Charing   Cross,   book-market    in, 

251-3 

derivation  of  the  name,  246 

the  monument,  247-8 

the  puzzle  of,  247 

Charles    I,    statue     at     Charing 

Cross,  247-8 
Charles  II  in  Lombard  Street,  294 
Charlotte  Street,    old    and  new, 
122-3 

Richard  Wilson  in,  121 

Chalk   Farm  and  primitive  rail- 
way travelling,  69-70 
Chancery  Lane  memories,  154-8 

Shakespeare  in,  154-5 

Chateaubriand,  his  adventure  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  187 


Chaucer,  his  grave  in  Westminster 

Abbey,  195 
Cheapside,  278-90 
associated    with    trade   and 

cockneyism,  279 

book-auctions  in,  288-90 

Heine  in,  279-80 

Keats  in,  284 

Milton  in,  284-7 

Poets  in,  284 

Cheere,   Sir    Henry,    his    leaden 

figures  for  gardens,  1 17-18 
Chelsea,  J.  M.  W.  Turner  at,  176 
Cheques,  why  preferred  to  cash 

by  Sir  Astley  Cooper,  83 
"  Cheshire     Cheese,"     did      Dr. 

Johnson  frequent  it  ?  236-7 
"Childe    Harold,"    published    in 

Fleet  Street,  237-40 
"China     orange,    all     Lombard 

Street  to  a,"  293 
Chiswell  Street,  46 
Chop-houses  in  the  City,  229 
Church  Row  at  Hampstead,  7 
City,  residential  life  in  the,  81-2 
City  Road,  the,  described,  40-3 

48-50 
Clare  Market,  142-5 
Claremont  Square,  Ishngton,  50 

Carlyle    in,  52-3 

Clarke,   Mary  Ann,  and  Duke  of 

York,  208 
Clarke,  W.,  at  Exeter  'Change,  165 
Cleopatra's  Needle,  210-11 
Clifford's  Passage,  Fleet  Street,  218 
Cloud,  Mr.,  his  literary  omnibuses, 

125 
Coal-heaver  evangelist,  the,  51-2 
Cobden  statue,  the,  131 
Cockneyism,  the  exit  of,  13 
Cockspur  Street,  254-6 
Colebrooke  Cottage,  Charles  Lamb 

at,  35-6 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  in  the  Strand 

161 


3i8 


A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 


Collins,  Wilkie,  describes  Hamp- 

stead,  8 
Colton,   Charles  Caleb,  in  Soho, 

140 
*'  Connemara,  a  suburban,"  71 
Constable,  R.A.,  John,    in    Char- 
lotte Street,  122 

at  Hampstead,  6 

Constitution  Hill,  215 

"  Conversation  "  Sharp,  275-6 

Cooper,  Sir  Astley,in  Broad  Street, 

81-5 
and  the   resurrection  men, 

84-5 

Copenhagen  and  London  com- 
pared, 282 

Cornhill,  99-108 

"  Cornhill  Magazine,"  the,  102-3 

Coronation  Coach,  the,  of  George 
III,  120 

'•  Country  boxes  "  of  citizens,  13 

Coverley,  Sir  Roger  de,  5 

Cowper,  William,  in  Southampton 
Row,  59 

on  Cockney  villas,  13 

Cows'  breath  inhaled  as  a  cure,  8 

Cozens,  John,  174 

Crabbe,  George,  7 

Crab  Tree  Fields,  58 

Craven  Buildings,  inhabitants  of, 
144 

Crestall,  Joshua,  174 

Cromwell,  his  supposed  burial  in 
Red  Lion  Square,  61 

Cross  at  King's  Cross,  73 

Cruden,   Alexander,  in  Islington, 

36 
Cruikshank,  George,  in  Claremont 

Square,  50 
Cumberland  Market,  126 
Cursitor  Street,  Lord  Eldon  in,  32 
Curtis's  Hatch,  Lambeth,  6 

Dairy  farmers  of  London,  39 
"  Dagger  "  in  the  City  arms,  106 


Dalby,  Mr.,  Inventor  of  public- 
house  beer-engine,  40 

Dalston,  16,  17 

Dalton,  John,  his  dislike  of 
London,  29 

Darwin,  Charles,  likes  Gower 
Street,  66 

Davenant,  Sir  W.,  on  London 
carts,  10 

Dawson,  Nancy,  60 

Day,  John,  7 

Deare,  John,  the  sculptor,  his 
strange  death,  118 

Defoe,  Daniel,  in  Cornhill,  loo-i 

in  Tokenhouse  Yard,  95 

Denmark  Hill,  19 

Devereux  Court,  extraordinary 
fatal  duel  in,  63 

Deville,  the  phrenologist,  168 

Devil  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street,  237 

De  Wint,  Peter,  174 

Dibdin,  Thomas,  on  book-auc- 
tions, 169-170 

Dickens,  Charles,  on  the  burning 
of  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 
203-4 

and  the  cabbage-leaves,  306 

his  sense  of  place,  306 

on  the  Eagle  Tavern,  42 

Dingley,  Mr.  Charles,  projector 
of  City  Road,  40 

Disraeli,  Benjamin,  in  Park  Lane, 
276-7 

Dodson  and  Fogg,  101-2 

"  Dog's-meat  tart  of  a  magazine," 
a,  268 

Dolphin  door  -  knockers  near 
Fetter  Lane,  152-4 

Dorsetshire  squire,  story  of,  26 

Doyley's,  in  the  Strand,  164 

Drapers'  Gardens,  95 

Drugs,  Sir  Astley  Cooper's  list  of 
principal,  83 

Dryden,  John,  grave  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  197 


INDEX 


319 


Ducarel,  Dr.,  his  regrets  at  spread 

of  London,  126 
Duel,  traditional,  in  Bloomsbury, 

66-7 
Duelling,  63 
Duke  of    Wellington,  statue  on 

arch    at    Hyde    Park    Corner, 

215-17 
Du  Maurier,  George,  8 
Dust  -  heaps  at  King's  Cross  and 

Moscow  legend,  72 
Dutch  church  in  Austin   Friars, 

94 

Eagle  Tavern,  the,  41 

performers  at,  42 

East  End  life,  how  to  see  it,  112 

East  India  House,  109 

remarkable  letter  to  direc- 
tors of,  109-10 

East  London,  remote  districts  of, 
114-15 

Edridge,  Henry,  174 

Egan,  Pierce,  described  by  G.  A. 
Sala,  259-60 

Eidophusikon,  the,  261-3 

Eldon,  Lord,  his  "  first  perch  "  in 
London,  32 

his  motto,  230 

his  vine  in  Gower  Street,  65 

Eleanor  Crosses,  the,  247 

"  Elegy,"  Gray's,  100 

Eliot,  George,  in  Strand,  160 

Ellenborough,  Lady,  in  Blooms- 
bury  Square,  59 

Ellerby,  Dr.  Thomas  Robson,  be- 
queaths his  body  for  dissection, 
85-6 

Ellis,  John,  a  friend  of  Dr.  John- 
son, 98-9 

an  epigram  by  him,  99 

Elwes,  John,  miser  and  town- 
planner,  126 

"  Endymion  "  of  Keats,  published 
in  Fleet  Street,  238 


Euston  Grove,  68 
Euston  Road,  flowers  and  fresh 
air  in,  68 

statuary  yards,  1 16-17 

Euston  Station,  69 
Exchequer  tallies,  203-4 

Fagin,  Cruikshank's  vision  of,  50 
Falconer,  William,  238 
Farthing  Pie-house,  126 
Fawkes,  Guy,  146 
Featherstone  Street,  44 
Fees,  liberal,  to  physicians,  83 
Fetter  Lane,  230 

Field  of  the  Forty  Footsteps,  66-7 
Fire  in  Cornhill,  1748,  destroys  a 
poet's  house,  100 

at    Houses    of    Parliament, 

202-5 

of     1666,    marks     of,    in    a 

Cheapside  house,  290 
"  First  Perch,  The,"  25,  32 
FitzGerald,  Edward,  in  Charlotte 
Street,  122 

on  Regent  Street,  270 

FitzGerald,     Mrs.     Edward,     on 

Charles  Lamb,  36 
Flats  in  London,  15 
Fleet  Street,  218-45 

a  silversmith's  memories  of, 

222-8 

Dr.  Johnson  in,  232-6 

old  shopping  days  in,  219-20 

Foote,   Samuel,    and    Hardham's 

snuff,  231 
Foot  Guards  and  their  bearskins,  4 
Forgery  by  a  great  engraver,  103 
to    "  sham    Abraham    New- 
land,"  37 
Fowl  roasted  in  sun's  heat,  300 
Fox,  George,  172 
Franklin,     Benjamin,     in     Wild 

Court,  147 
"PYaser's  Magazine,"  "  Sartor  Re- 
sartus  "  in,  268-9 


320 


A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 


Free    and    easies    of    old    Fleet 

Street,  223-225 
Free  library  in  an  omnibus,  125 
Freeman's  Court,  101-2 
Fribourg  and  Treyer,  263 
Fruit  grown  in  City  Road,  47 
"  Fruits  of  Experience,"  a  Fleet 

Street  chronicle,  222-8 
Fulwood's  Rents,  5 
Furnival's  Inn,  4 

Gainsborough,     R.A.,    Thomas, 

261-2 
Gamp,  Mrs.,  in  Kingsgate  Street, 

145-6 

Garraway's,  300 

Garrick,  David,  his  Abbey  monu- 
ment, 181-2 

his  funeral,  198-9 

Gay,  John,  at  Hampstead,  8 

George  Street,  Adelphi,  249 

George  the  Martyr,  Saint,  burial- 
ground,  60 

George  II,  burial  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  194 

George  III  entertained  by  Quaker 
in  Cheapside,  283-284 

his  statue,  254 

George  Yard,  160 

"  Gentleman  "  Jackson,  272-3 

Gibbon's  "Decline  and  Fall,"  168-9 

Giles-in-the-Fields,  Saint,  church 
and  village,  138-9 

Giles,  Saint,  Cripplegate,  285 

Girtin,  Thomas,  175-6 

Gissing,  George,  on  Hoxton,  33-4 

on  lodging  houses,  32 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  in  the  London 
streets,  4 

Globe  Tavern,  Fleet  Street,  festive 
gatherings  at,  224-5 

Godwin,  Mary  Wolstonecraft,  77 

Mary,  78 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  on  London 
traffic,  II 


Gosset,  **  Milk-white,"  170 
Goswell  Street,  Dickens  on,  49 
Gough,  Richard,  the  antiquary,  90 
Gough     Square,     Dr.    Johnson's 

house  in,  232-3 
Gower  Street,  stories  of,  66 
Grant,  Sir  William,  at  the  Rolls 

Court  House,  156-8 
Grapes  grown  by  Lord  Eldon  in 

Gower  Street,  65 
grown  in  Gower  Place  re- 
cently, 65 
Grasshopper,    the,    in    Lombard 

Street,  294 
Gray,  David,  his  dread  of  dying  in 

London,  31 
Gray,  Thomas,  in  Cornhill,  99-100 

in  Southampton  Row,  59 

Grecian  Saloon,  the,  41 
Greek  accent,  dying  for  a,  63 
Green  Man  Tavern,  the,  123,  126 
Gresham  College,  86 
Gresham,  Sir  Thomas,  86 

in  Lombard  Street,  294 

Grey,  Henry,  Duke  of  Suffolk,  his 

head  from  Tower  Hill,  ill 
Grey,  John,  and  his  cider  vault,  5 
Grimaldi,  Joseph,  50 
"  Grocers,  The  Polite,"  165 
Guy,  Thomas,  at  **  Lucky  Corner, 

302 

why  he  did  not  marry,  302 

Guy's  Hospital,  303 

Halfpenny  Hatches,  6 
Hamerton,  Philip  Gilbert,  his  in- 
difference to  London,  30 
Hamiltonian  system,  the,  220 
Hampstead,  associations  of,  6-8 
Hampstead  Heath,  6-7 
Hansom-cab,  evolution  of  the,  12 
Hansom,  J.  Aloysius,  12 
Hanway,  Jonas,  136 
Hanway  Street,  136 
Hardham's  snuff,  230-1 


INDEX 


321 


Hastings,  Charles  Lamb  at,  13 
Hats  at  Lloyd's    in  the   Strand, 

165-7 
Haydon,  B.  R.,  at  Hampstead,  8 
his  "Napoleon  at  St.  Helena," 

272 

in  Strand,  160-1 

Haymarket,  the,  256-60 

Hazlitt,    William,    in    Chancery 

Lane,  155 
Hearne,  Thomas,  174 
Heine,   Heinrich,    in    Cheapside, 

279-80 
Henry  V  in  Westminster  Abbey, 

192 
Henry  VI   chooses  his  grave  in 

Westminster  Abbey,  192-3 
"  Here  lies  Nancy  Dawson,"  60 
Hermes  Street,  origin  of  the  name, 

51 

Hermes  Trismegistus,  Penton- 
ville  Street  named  after,  51 

Highlanders,  wooden,  in  tobacco- 
nists' shops,  231-2 

Hindley,  Charles,  9 

Hogarth, his  "March  to  Finchley," 
134 

^ogg>  James,  in  Regent  Street, 
269 

Holborn,  changes  in,  4-5 

Hollingshead,  John,  on  the 
Grecian  Saloon,  41 

Hone's  "  Every-Day  Book,"  etc., 
289 

Horse  Guards'  Parade,  206-7 

Houses  of  Parliament,  the  fire  of 
1834,  202-5 

Howe,  Mr.,  of  Jermyn  Street,  his 
marital  escapade,  264-7 

Howell,  James,  compares  conti- 
nental cities  with  London,  281 

Howells,  W.  D.,  on  London  omni- 
buses, II 

Hoxton,  author's  "  first  perch  "  in, 
33 

Y 


Hudson,  Thomas,  27 
Huntington,  William,  51-2 

Ireland,  Dean,  and  the  burning 
of  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 
203 

Irving,  Edward,  in  Claremont 
Square,  53 

Islington,  author's  impressions  of, 

34-5 

recent  desertion  of,  21 

worthies  of,  37 

Jackson  John,  pugilist  and 
trainer,  272-3 

Jamaica  Tavern,  300 

James  I,  his  silkworm  project, 
212 

James  V,  flight  of,  147 

Jehoshaphat,  Mr.,  of  Panton 
Street,  258 

Jenner,  Charles,  "Town  Ec- 
logues," 129-30 

Jermyn  Street,  a  strange  story  of, 
264-7 

Jerusalem,  the,  299 

"Jesus  Temple,"  94 

"Jew's  Harp"  tea-garden, the,  124 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  his  funeral 
procession  in  Fleet  Street,  239 

if  he  returned  to  Fleet  Street  ? 

243-5 

in  Fleet  street,  232-7 

in  a  Mortimer  Street  studio, 

120 

on  his  mother's  death,  234 

Johnson,  Mrs.  Samuel,  233 
Jonson,  Ben,  as  friend  of  John 

Stow,  106 

in  Fleet  Street,  237 

in  Westminster  Abbey,  196 

Keats  at  Hampstead,  8 

in  Cheapside,  284 

in  Fleet  Street,  238 


322 


A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 


Keene,  Charles,   in    the   Strand, 

178 
Kelly,  Mrs.,  Dan  Leno  on,  185 
"  Kelly's  Wars "  and  the  legend 

of  Napoleon's  visit  to  London, 

250 
Kendall's  Farm,  Regent's  Park, 

126 
Kensington  Gravel-pits,  175 
Kensington  Turnpike  Trust,  18 
King,  Dr.  William,  his  London 

anecdotes,  62-4 
King  William  Street,  303 
King's  Cross,  the  Great  Northern 

railway-station  at,  71 
Kingsgate  Street  and  Mrs.  Gamp, 

145 
Kingsland  Road  described,  16-17 
Kitchener,  Dr.,  in  Warren  Street, 

132-3 
Kneller,    Sir     Godfrey,    refuses 
burial  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
194 

Lackington,  James,  story  of,  44-7 
"  Lacon,"  the  author  of ,  in  Soho, 

140-1 
Lamb,  Charles,  and  Lord  Nelson, 

161 

at  East  India  House,  109 

his  ridicule  of  Cockneys  at 

seaside,  13 

in  Chancery  Lane,  155 

on  damage  in  Westminster 

Abbey,  190-1 

weeds  out  his  books,  254 

Lay  cock,  the  Islington  cow-keeper, 

39 
Leaden  figures  for  gardens,!  17-18 
"  Leger        Conviviales,"        Ben 

Jonson's,  237 
Leno,  Dan,  182-5 
"  Liber  Studiorum,"  Turner's,  133 
Life,  not  to  be  lived  over  again, 

64 


Lincoln's  Inn  Gateway,  152 

Lion  on  Northumberland  House 
wags  its  tail,  248 

Lirriper,  Mrs.,  in  Norfolk  Street, 
1 80 

Literary  life,  the,  244-5 

Literary  memorials  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  192-8 

Little  Dean  Street,  curious  door- 
knockers in,  153 

"  Little  Sea,"  the,  58 

Little  Wild  Street  Chapel,  145 

Lloyd,  the  hatter,  165-8 

Lombard  Street,  292-7 

London  Bridge,  307-8 

faces  on,  310 

"London  Bridge  is  Broken 
Down,"  307 

London,  coming  to,  25-9 

and  provincial  cities  com- 
pared, 22 

as    sketching-ground    for 

artists,  175 

expression,  the,  310 

madness  caused  by  size  of, 

26 

manner  of  its  growth,  16 

not  easily  viewed,  281 

population  of  inner,  decreas- 
ing, 21 

sights  of,  in  1886,  3-4 

size  of  in  relation  to  comfort, 

IS 

the  love  of,  20,  22-4 

Topographical  Society,  19 

topography  and  curious  fact 

concerning,  246-7 
Londoners,  their  new  desire  for 

country,  20 
Longevity,  Peter  Pindar's  rules 

for,  68 
"  Lord  Mayor,   his    Coachman," 

the,  291 
his  show  formerly  witnessed 

by  the  sovereign,  283-4 


INDEX 


323 


Lottery  brokers  in  Cornhill  300 
Lottery,  the  last,  301 
Loughborough,    Lord,     why    he 

came  to  London,  27 
Loutherbourg,    R.A.,    Philip    de, 

261-3 
Love  Lane,  305 
Lovel,  Sir  T.,  and  Lincoln's  Inn 

Gateway,  154 
"  Lucky  Corner,"  300 
Luke's,   Saint,    Lunatic  Asylum, 

42 
Lying-in-state    of    a     Lombard 

Street  banker,  297 
Lytton,  Lord,  and  Mr.  Westell's 

shop  in  Bozier's  Court,  135 

Macaulay,  Catherine,  her  statue 
removed  from  a  City  church, 
291-2 

Macaulay,  Lord,  his  cheque  for 
;^io,ooo,  296 

and  Drapers'  Gardens  95 

Macaulay,  Zachary,  60 

Macklin,  Charles,  225 

"  Mafficking  "  on  Culloden  night, 
256 

Man^an  "  unlucky  rascal,"  242 

Mansion  House  Street,  291 

Mantelpiece,  a  sculptured,  151-2 

Maps  of  Bloomsbury,  57-9 

Marble  Arch,  the,  215 

"March  to  Finchley,"  Hogarth's, 
134-5 

Marconi  apparatus  at  Admiralty, 
207 

Market  for  hay  in  the  Haymarket, 
256-7 

Mart,  the,  Tokenhouse  Yard, 
96 

Martin's  Bank,  294 

Mary  II,  burial  of,  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  192 

Marylebone  High  Street,  19 

Maypole  Alley,  145 


Mead,    Dr.    Richard,    in    Austin 

Friars,  88-90 
Medical  men  in  the  city,  80-^ 
Menagerie,  Frank  Buckland's,  in 

Albany  Street,  129 
Mermaid  Tavern,  the,  284 
Mews  Gate  and  "  Honest  Tom 

Payne,"  251 
Meynell,  Mrs.,  on  London  expres- 
sion, 310 
"  Microcosm  of  London,"  the,  177 
Milan    and    London    compared, 

281 
Military  conduct,  a  point  of,  208-9 
Milo  the  Cretonian,  4 
Milton  in  and  about  Cheapside, 

285-6 

quoted  unawares,  286-7 

statue  of,  285 

Mincing  Lane,  108-9 

Minor ies,  a  head  from  the  Tower 

preserved  in,  no 
Mitchell,  Mr.,  the  banker,  176-7 
Mitford,    Rev.    John,    his   poem 

"The  Owl,"  150-1 
Montgomery      College,       Peter 

Pindar  at,  67-8 
Monument,  premature,  in  a  City 

church,  291-2 
Monument,  the,  303-4 
Moore,    John,     and    his    worm 

powder,  297-8 
Morris,    William,    in    Red    Lion 

Square,  64 
Morrison,      Mr.      James,      and 

Morrison's  pills,  72 
Mortimer's  Market,  67 
Moscow,  a  King's  Cross  legend 

of,  72 
Mother  Red  Cap  Tavern,  131 
Motor  vehicle,  the  first  London, 

127 
Mounsey,      Dr.,    bequeaths    his 

body  for  dissection,  85 
Mud  in  Chancery  Lane,  154 


324 


A   LONDONER'S   LONDON 


Mulberry  Gardens,  the,  212-13 

Mulberry-tree  planted  by  Shake- 
speare, 212 

Munro,  Dr.  John,  174 

Murder  of  William  Weare  by 
Thurtell,  148-51 

Murray,  John  (the  First),  in  Fleet 
Street,  238 

Murray,  John  (the  Second),  in 
Fleet  Street,  239 

and  "Rejected  Addresses," 

91 

Naples  and  London  compared, 

282 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  did  he  visit 

London  ?  248-51 

and   the    Stock    Exchange, 

92 

Nelson,  Lord,  and  Charles  Lamb, 
161 

Newcastle-on-Tyne,  old  Christ- 
mas carol  at,  308 

Newcom,  Colonel,  in  Fitzroy 
Square,  117 

Newgate,  an  engraving  completed 
in  condemned  cell,  105 

Newington  Green,  17 

Newland,  Abraham,  37 

Newman  Street,  121 

New  River,  jumping  the,  226 

New  (Euston  Road),  the,  com- 
mencement of,  56 

"  Peter  Pindar  "  in,  67 

Newspaper  at  Peele's  Coffee- 
house, 228 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  198 

"  Nirvana,  a  suburban,"  8 

Nollekens,  R.A.,  Joseph,  the 
Westminster  Abbey,  189-90 

'*  Nollekens  and  his  Times,"  119 

Norfolk  Street,  Strand,  179^2 

Northington,  Lord,  in  Great 
James  Street,  32 


Northumberland  Coffee-house  and 
the  Napoleon  legend,  248-9 

Obelisk   in    Red    Lion   Square, 

61 
O'Connell,  Daniel,  229 
"  Old  Nosey,"  263-4 
Oliver  Twist,  a  name  in  Hoxton, 

33 
Omnibus,  the  first  free  library,  125 

the  "  garden-seat,"  10 

the  "  knife-board,"  9 

"  Omnibus,"  its  derivation,  124 
"  Omnibuses,"  or  "omnibi,"  125 
Omnibuses,    the    first     London, 

124-5 
Osnaburgh  Street,  126 

Paddington  Canal,  175 
Pageants  in  Cheapside,  283 
Pancras,  Saint,  old  church,  77-8 

railway-station,  70 

Panton,     Colonel,    and    Panton 

Street,  260-1 
Panton    Street,    G.    A.    Sala  in, 

258 
Paris,  the  omnibus  in,  124 

and  London  compared,  280-2 

Londoners'  love  for,  281 

Park  Lane,  273-7 

Partridge  or  woodcock  first  ?  63-4 

Pascal,  Blaise,    inventor  of   the 

omnibus,  124 
Paul,  Saint,  his  cross  and  sword 

in  City  arms,  106 
"  Payne,  Honest  Tom,"  251 
Payne,    Roger,   the    bookbinder, 

171 
Peele's  Coffee-house,  228 

tragic  death  at,  229 

"Pelican,   our    old    friend    the,"" 

119 
Pelvis,  George  Cruikshank  on  the 

importance  of  the,  50 
Penley,  W.  S.,  14 


INDEX 


325 


Pentonville,  new  buildings  at,  52 
Perring,  a  Strand  hatter,  167 
Pettv,  Sir  William,  his  versatiUty, 

96 
Phrenology  in  the  Strand,  168 
Piccadilly  statuary  yards,  117-18 
Pickwick,     Mr.,     in    Freeman's 

Court,  101-2 

in  Goswell  Street,  49 

"Pickwick  Papers,"  160,  168 
Pidding's  Corner,  300 
"Pilgrim's      Progress,"      where 

published,  287 
Pillar-box,  London's  first,  220-1 
Pinchbeck,  Christopher,  his  "  noc- 
turnal remembrancer,"  255-6 
Pincot,    a   painter   of   cheap  oil 

pictures,  75 
Pindar,  Peter,  in  the  New  Road, 

67-8 
Piozzi,  Mrs.,  shopping  in    Fleet 

Street,  227 
"  Plackett's  Common,"  City  Road, 

40 
Plague,  the,  in  Tokenhouse  Yard, 

95 
Plane-tree  in  Cheapside,  290 
Plate  glass,    none  in  old    Fleet 

Street,  220 
Plough  Court,    Alexander    Pope 

born  in,  297 
Poets  of  Cheapside,  284 
Pontack's,  298 
Pool,  the,  311 
Pope,  Alexander,  born  in  Plough 

Court,  297 
"  Pop  goes  the  Weasel,"  41 
Population  of  inner  London,  de- 
crease of,  21 
Portico  of  Euston  Station,  69 
Poultry,  287-8 
Pratt,    Charles,    Lord     Camden 

130 
Pretender,    the,     in     Red    Lion 

Square,  64 


Price,    landlord   of   the    "Green 

Man,"  126 
Prideaux,  Colonel  W.  F.,  19,  38 
Prior,  Matthew,  in  Westminster 

Abbey,  197-8 
"  Private  Secretary,"  the,  14 
Professors,  the  Gresham,  in  Broad 

Street,  86 
Proverbs  of  London  Bridge,  308 
Pump  in  Cornhill,  107 

Quaker   banker    in    Cheapside 

entertains  Royalty,  283-4 
Queen  Square,  Bloomsbury,  59 
Quickset  Row,  Euston  Road,  123 

Radcliffe,  Dr.  John,  88-9 

in  Clare  Market,  143-4 

Railway  termini  in  Euston  Road, 

69-71 
Raimback,  Abraham,  133-4 
"  Rambler,"  Johnson's,  written  in 

Gough  Square,  233 
"  Rasselas,"  written  by  Dr.  John- 
son in  Gough  Square,  234-6 
Reading     habit,     spread     of    in 

eighteenth  century,  46 
Redding,    Cyrus,    his    arrival    in 

London,  26 
"  Red  Lion  Mary,"  64-5 
Red  Lion  Square,  61-5 
Red  Mass,  the,  147 
Regent  Street,  267-71 
"  Rejected  Addresses,"  the,  91 
"  Remainders,"  T.  Tegg's  dealings 

in,  288-9 
Resurrection  Gate,  the,  138 
Resurrection  men,  the,  84-5 
"  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,"  290 
Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  his  arrival 

in,  27 

in  the  Strand,  172-4 

Richard  II  in  Westminster  Abbey, 

"  Richardson,  the  tomb  of,"  221-2 


326 


A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 


Ridler's  in  Holborn,  5 
Ring  and  Brymer's,  Cornhill,  107 
Rising       Sun      Tavern,      Book- 
sellers' Row,  9 
Robin  in  Westminster  Abbey,  194 
Robins,  George,  the  auctioneer, 

96-8 
"  Robinson  Crusoe,"  100 
Rogers,  Samuel,  and  Cornhill,  loi 
Roker,  Mr.,  of  the  Fleet  Prison, 

23 
Rolls  Chapel  and  Court  House,  the, 

156-8 
Rome    and    London    compared, 

281 
Rookery  at  Carlton  House,  212 
Rossetti,   D.    G.,    in     Red    Lion 

Square,  64-5 
Rotherhithe,  a  wooden  gallery  at, 

311 
Rothschild,  Nathan  Meyer,  92-4 
Rouse,   Thomas,    of    the    Eagle 

Tavern,  41 
Rowlands,  Thomas,  176-8 
Royal   Academy   in   the   Strand, 

172-4 
Royal  Society,  the,  88 
Rubens,  Peter    Paul,    inscription 

by,  in  Austin  Friars,  94 
Ruskin,  John,  8 
Russell  Square,  55 
Ryland,     William    Wynne,    his 

tragic  story,  103-5 
Rysbrack,  the  sculptor,  118 

Sala,  G.  a.,  50 

in  the  Haymarket,  358 

Salt-box,  the,  126 

Salway,  Joseph,  his  "  Plan,"  18 

Sandby,  Paul,  175 

Sardinia  Street  and  Chapel,  146-7 

"Sartor  Resartus"  in  search  of  a 

publisher,  267-9 
Sat  cito,  si  sat  bene,  230 
Sauce,  a  guinea's  worth  of,  132 


Scott,  Sir  Walter,  7 

in  Fleet  Street,  239 

interested  in  a  great  murder, 

151 
Scott   (William),  Lord  Eldon    in 

Fleet  Street,  229 
Scrivener,  the  profession  of,  99 
Sculptors  in  Piccadilly,  1 17-18 
Sculptures  in  Westminster  Abbey, 

damage  done  to,  189-90 
Semaphore  at  the  Admiralty,  207 
Sermons  on  the  great  storm  of 

1703,  145 
Shakespeare  in  Chancery  Lane, 

155 

Dr.  Johnson's  edition  of,  233-4 

his  mulberry-tree,  212 

his  name,  how  spelt  ?  225 

one  of  his  characters  buried 

in  Austin  Friars,  94 
"Sham  Abraham  Newland,"  37 
Sharp,  Richard  ("  Conversation  "), 

275-6 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  and  Mary 

Godwin,  78 
Shepherdess   Walk    and    Fields, 

48 
Sheridan,  R.  B.,  199 
Shillibeer,  George,  and  the  first 

London  omnibuses,  124 
"  Shocking  bad  hat,  a,"  209 
Shooting  the  bridge,  308 
Shops  in  Fleet  Street,  219-20 

in  the  Strand,  164-9 

Siddons,  Mrs.,  in  Gower  Street, 

65 
Signs  of  Lombard  Street,  295 
Sinclair,  Sir   J.  Tollcmache,   his 

memorial  to  Byron,  241 
Skull  in  a  railway-station,  a,  80 
Smith,    James  and    Horace,    in 

Austin  Friars,  91 
Smith,  John    Thomas,   on    rural 

Bloomsbury,  61 
Smith,  Payne,  and  Smiths,  296 


INDEX 


327 


Smith,  Sydney,  his  ideal  of  earthly 

happiness,  277 

at  a  phrenologist's,  168 

Smollett,  Tobias,  at  the    British 

Coffee  House,  256 
Snuff-shop  in  Haymarket,  famous, 

263 
Snuff-shops    and  wooden    High- 
landers, 231-2 
Socrates,  had  William  31ake  met 

him  ?  69 
Soeur,  Hubert  le,  248 
Soho  as  a  retreat,  139-40 
the  author  of  "  Lacon  "  in, 

140-1 
Somerset  House,  214 

old,  172-4 

Somerset,  the  Protector,  172 
Somers  Town,  71 
"Sotheby's,"  169 
Southampton    House,    Chancery 

Lane,  155 
Southey,  Robert,  on  the  Field  of 

the  Forty  Footsteps,  67 
Spencer,  Herbert,  in  Strand,  160 
Spenser,  Edmund,  in  Westminster 

Abbey,  196 
Spitalfields,  112-4 
Squire's  Coffee-house,  5 
Stael,  Madame  de,  story  of,  221-2 
Staple     Inn,      "  Rasselas,"      not 

written  there,  234-6 
Statuary  yards  in  Euston  Road, 

116-17 
Statue,  an  extraordinary,  294-5 
Steam  carriage,   Sir  Goldsworth 

Gurney's,  127 
"Steele,  Honest  Tom,"  death  of, 

229 
I  Steele,    Richard,   at   Hampstead, 
1      8 
j  Stephen,  Sir  James,  his  inscription 

for  Z.    Macaulay's  monument, 

61 
Stephen's  Chapel,  Saint,  204 


Stephen's,  Saint,  Walbrook,  a 
miniature  St.  Paul's,  291 

Sterne,  Lawrence,  death  of,  272 

Stevenson,  R.  L.,  and  hansom- 
cabs,  12 

Stock  Exchange,  the  original, 
300 

Stockholm  and  London  com- 
pared, 282 

Stocks  Market,  the,  294-5 

Stoke  Newington,  16-17 

Storm,  the  Great,  of  1703,  145 

Stow,  John,  106-7 

Strahan,  W.,  the  bookseller, 
169 

Strand,  the,  159-85 

structural  changes  in,  160 

Street,  a  forgotten,  291 

names,  rural  suggestion  in 

16-17 

from  surnames,  136 

Sturges,  Joshua,  a  draughts- 
player,  136 

Sun-cookery  in  Cornhill,  300 

Surnames  as  street  names,  136 

Swan  Lane,  305 

Tallis's  "  London  Street  Views," 

Tegg,   Thomas,   his   bookselling 

methods,  288--90 
Temple  Bar,  demolition  of,  2-3 
Tennyson  in  Fleet  Street,  237 

in  Regent  Street,  270 

TeufelsdrSckh  on  the  superfluity 

of  books,  251 
Thackeray,  W.  M.,  in  Cornhill, 

102-3 

on  Hyde  Park  Corner,  217 

Thames  Street,  Mrs.  Nickleby  in, 

305 
Thanet  Place,  160 
Thompson,  James,  in  Bond  Street, 

272 
Thomson,  a  music-seller,  165 


328 


A  LONDONER'S   LONDON 


Thurtell,    John,    his    murder   of 

Weare,  148-51 
"  Tilbury  "  hat,  the,  166 
Tips,  Dr.  William  King's  object- 

tion  to,  62 
Todgers's,  303-4 
Tokenhouse  Yard,  95-6 
Tolmer's  Square,  39,  135 
Torrington  Square,  66 
Tottenham  Court  Road,  135-7 
Trevelyan,  Sir  George  Otto,  on 

Zachary  Macaulay,'  60 
Trim,  Aaron  and  John,  165 
Triumphal  arch  on   Constitution 

Hill,  215-16 
Turner,    Charles,    the   engraver, 

133 
Turner,  J.  M.   W.,  his  farewell 

to  life,  176 
"  Twigg,  Timothy,"  290 

University  College,  67 
Upper  Street,  Islington,  34 

Valangin,  Dr.  Francis  de,  and 

Hermes  Hill,  51 
"Vanity    of     Human     Wishes," 

written  at  Hampstead,  8 
Varley,  John,  174 
and    his    cab     invention, 

12 
Venice   and    London   compared, 

281 
Viner,    Sir    Robert,   translates  a 

statue,  294-5 

Wager  by  Lord  Mayor's  coacli- 

man,  291 
Wallis,    Albany,    and    Garrick's 

Monument,  181-2 
Walpole,  Sir  Robert,  in  Arlington 

Street,  27 
Warren  Street,  13 1-4 
Water-colour  artists,  famous,  174- 

5 


Waterloo  Bridge,  scheme  to  place 

Cleopatra's    Needle    on,    210- 

II 
Waterloo  Place,  intended  site  of 

Cleopatra's  Needle,  210 
Watts,  G.  F.,  and  Euston  Station, 

70 
Weare,  William,  of  Lyon's  Inn, 

148-9 
Weavers'  houses   in  Spitalfields, 

I 13-14 
Weller,  Sam,  his  knowledge  of 

London,  102 
Wellington,  Duke  of,  on  site  of 

Houses  of  Pariiament,  206 
and  his  statue  at  Hyde  Park 

Corner,  215-17 
"  Wellington  »  hat,  the,  168 
Wells,  Mr.  H.  G.,  at  Hampstead, 

7 
"  Wesley's  old  women,"  46 
Westell,  Mr.,  the  bookseller,  135 
Westminster  Abbey,  186-99 

author's  adventure  in,  187 

Abbey,  Chateaubriand  spends 

a  night  there,  187 
curious      conversation      in, 

189-90 

depredations  in,  188-91 

the  royal  tombs  in,  191-4 

Weston,  Stephen,  171 
Whateley,    Archbishop,    on    the 

character  of  Thurtell,  152 
Whitefoord,  Caleb,  177 
White,  Lydia,  274-5 
Whitehall,  buildings  in,  206 
Whitehall  Court,  206 
'•  White  Horse  Cellar,"  27 
Wilkie,    David,    meets    Sir    W. 

Scott  in  Fleet  Street,  239 
his     "  Village    Politicians," 

and  "Rent  Day,"  133 
Willan's  Farm,    Regent's    Park, 

39,  123 
Willow  Walk,  at  MiUbank,  151 


INDEX 


329 


Wilmot,  John  Eardley,  his  shy- 
ness of  London,  29 
Wilson,  R.A.,  Richard,  120-1 
Wilton,  R.A.,  Joseph,  the  sculptor, 

120 
Wine  and  wit,  Ben  Jonson  on, 

237-8 
Wishart's  snuff-shop,  231 
Wolcot,  Dr.  (Peter  Pindar),  67-8 
Woodcock  or  partridge  first  ?  63- 

4 
Woollett,  William,  134 


Wordsworth,  William,  at  Hamp- 

stead,  8 

at  the  Haymarket  Opera,  257 

on  London,  25 

"  World's  radial  artery,"  the,  278 
Wren,  Christopher,  as  Gresham 

lecturer,  87 

York  and  Albany,  Duke  of,  208-10 
York  Buildings,  249 
York  Column,  the,  208-10 
Yorkshire  Stingo  Tavern,  the,  124 


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■"  TTT  VT, 


Fiction      vr-^nHTiuM 


«3 


Part  III. — A  Selection  of  Works  of  Fiction 


Albanesl  (E.  Maria).    SUSANNAH  AND 

ONE    OTHER.      Fourth    Edition.      Cr. 

Sva.     6s. 
LOVE    AND    LOUISA.      SecanJ   Edition. 

Cr.  Zvo.     6j. 
THE  BROWN  EYES  OF  MARY.     Third 

Edition.     Cr.  Rvo.     6s. 
I    KNOW    A    MAIDEN.     Third   Edition. 

Cr.  &V0.     6s. 
THE  INVINCIBLE   AMELIA;    or,    The 

PoLiTB    AuvKNTUKKss.       Third    Edition. 

Cr.  %V9.     3*.  6d. 
THE     GLAD     HEART.       Fifth    Edition. 

Cr.  %vo.     6s. 
^OLIVIA    MARY.     Cr.  Bvt.    6s. 

BagOt  (Richard).  A  ROMAN  MYSTERY. 

Third  Edition.     Cr.  ^■"o.     6s. 
THE   PASSPORT.     Fourth  Edition.     Cr. 

&r>o.     6s. 
ANTHONY  CUTHBERT.   Fourth  Edition. 

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LOVE'S  PROXY.     Cr.  Zvo.    6s. 
DONNA    DIANA.      Second  Edition.      Cr. 

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CASriNG    OF    NETS.     Twelfth    Edition. 

Cr.  %vo.     6s. 
THE  HOUSE  OF  SERRAVALLE.     Third 

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Bailey  (H.C.).  STORM  AND  TREASURE. 

Third  Edition.     Cr.  %vo.     6s. 
THE  LONELY  QUEEN.       Third  Edition. 

Cr.  %v».    6s. 

Baring-Gould    (S.).       IN  THE    ROAR 

OF  THE  SEA.    Eighth  Edition.     Cr.  %vo. 

6s. 
MARGERY     OF     QUETHER.  Second 

Edition.     Cr.  Zvo.     6s. 
THE  QUEEN  OF  LOVE.     Fifth  Edition. 

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iACQUETTA.    Third  Edition.   Cr.  %vo.   6s. 
LITTY  ALONE.  Fifth  Edition.  Cr.Zvo.  6s. 
NOEML     Illustrated.    Fourth  Edition.    Cr. 

8r#.     6s. 
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ROYAL  GEORGIE.    Illustrated.   Cr.ivo.6s. 
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tva.     6s. 
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Begbie  (Harold).  THE  CURIOUS  AND 
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Belloc-Lowndes  (Mrs.).  THE  CHINK 
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•MARY  PECHELL.     Cr.  Zvo.    6s. 

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THE  MATADOR  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS. 

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UNDER  WESTERN  EYES.  Second  Ed. 
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24 


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Fiction 


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Fiction 


27 


WllUnmson  (C  N.  and  A.  M.)-  THE 
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•BoTOR  Chaperok,  Thb.     C.  N.  and  A.  M. 

Williamson. 
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Car    of    Destiny    and    its     Errand    in 

Spain,  The.     C.  N.  and  A.  M.  WSliamson. 
Clementina.     A.  E.  W.  Mason. 
Colonel  Enderby's  Wife.    Lucas  Malet. 
Felix.     Robert  Hichens. 
Gate  of  the  Desert,  The.   John  Oxenham. 
My   Friend  the  Chauffeue.      C.  N.  and 

A.  M.  Williamson. 


Princess  Virginia, 
Williamson. 


Thb.    C.  N.  and  A.  M. 

Sir  Gilbert 


Seats  of  the   Mighty,  The 
Parker. 

Servant  of  the  Public,  A.    Anthony  Hope. 

*Skt  in  Silver.    C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Severins,  The.     Mrs.  Alfred  Sidgwick. 

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•Vivien.    W.  B.  Maxwell. 


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W.  K.  Clifford. 

Girl  of  the  People,  A.    L.  T.  Meade. 

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Honourable  Miss,  The.     L.  T.  Meade. 

IIastek  Rockafbllar's  Voyage,    W.  Clark 


Only    a    Guard-Room    Dog.         Edith    E. 

Cuthell. 
Red  Grange,  The.     Mrs.  Molesworth. 
Syd    Belton  :     The    Boy    who    would    not 

go  to  Sea.     G.  Manville  Fcnn. 
There  was  once  a  Prince.      Mrs.  M.  S. 

Mann. 


28 


Methuen  and  Company  Limited 


Methuen's  Shilling  Novels. 


•Anna  of  the  Fivk  Towns.    Arnold  Bennett. 

Barbary    Shkkp.     Robert    Hichens. 

Charm,  The.     Alice  Perrin. 

•Demon,  The.     C  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Guarded  Flame,  The.     W.  B.  Maxwell.       < 

Jank.     Marie  Corelli, 

Ladt   Bhttv  Across  the  Water.    C  N. 

&  A    M.  Wilhamson. 
•Long  Road,  The.    John  Oxenham, 
Mighty  Atom.  The.     Marie  Corelli. 
Mirage.     E.  Temple  Thurston. 
Missing    Delora,  The.     E   Phillips  Oppen- 

beim. 


Round  the  Red  Lamp.    Sir  A.  Con.in  Doyle. 
•Secret  Woman,  The.     Eden  Philipotts. 
•Severins,  The.     Mrs.  Alfred  Sidgwiclc. 
Spanish  Gold.     G.  A.  Birmingham. 
Tales  of  Mean  Streets.     Arthur  Morrison. 
The  Halo.     The  Baroness  von  Hutten. 
•Tyrant,   The.     Mrs.  Henry  de  la  Pasture. 
Under  the  Red  Robb.    Stanley  J.  Weyman. 
Virginia  Perfect.     Peggy  Webling. 
Woman    with    the    Fan,    The.         Robert 
Hicheas. 


The  Novels  of  Alexandre  Dumas. 

Medium  Svo.     Price  6d.     Double  Volumes,  u. 


Act*. 

Adventures  of  Captain  Pamphile,  The. 

Amaury. 

Bird  of  Fate,  The. 

Black  Tulip,  The. 

Black  :  the  Story  of  a  Dog. 

Castle  of  Eppstein,  The. 

Cathbkinb  Blum. 

CiCILB. 

ChAtelet,  The. 

Chevalier    D'Harmental,  The.     (Double 

volume.) 
Chicot  the  Jester. 
Chicot  Redivivus. 

COMTE   DE   MONTGOMMERY,    Th«. 

Conscience. 

Convict's  Son,  The. 

Corsican  Brothers,  The;    and  Otho  the 

Archer. 
Crop-Eared  Jacquot. 
DoM  Gorenflot. 
Due  d'Anjou,  The. 
Fatal  Combat,  The. 
Fencing  Master,  The. 
Fernandb. 
Gabriel  Lambert. 
Georges. 

Great  Massacre,  The. 
Henri  db  Navarre. 

HiLkNB  DB  CnAVSKNT. 


Horoscope,  The. 

Leone-Leona. 

Louise  de  la  Valli^rb.    (Double  Yolume.) 

Man  in  the    Iron  Mask,  Thb.     (Double 

volume.) 
MaItre  Adam. 
Mouth  of  Hell,  Thb. 
Nanon.    (Double  volume.) 
Olympia. 

Pauline;  Pascal  Bruno;  and  Bontbkob. 
PkRE  LA  Ruinb. 
Porte  Saint-Antoinb,  Thb. 
Prince  of  Thieves,  Thb. 
Reminiscences  or  Antont,  Tmb. 
St.  Qubntin. 
Robin  Hood. 
Samuel  Gelb. 

Snowball  and  thb  Sultanbtta,  Tmb. 
Sylvandire. 

Takins  of  Calais,  Thb. 
Tales  of  the  Supernaturau 
Tales  of  Strange  Advbntukb. 
Tales  of  Terror. 

Three  Muskbtbbrs,  Thb.   (Double  volume.) 
Tourney  of  the  Rub  St.  Antoinb. 
Tragedy  of  Nantes,  Thb. 
Twenty  Years  After.    (Double   volume.) 
Wild-Duck  Shooter,  The, 
Wolf-Lbadbe,  Thb. 


a^TlWT.T 


Fiction 


ht.hM 


39 


Methuen's  Sixpenny  Books. 

Medium  Svo. 


Ibanesl    (E.    Maria).     LOVE    AND 

LOUISA. 

KNOW   A  MAIDEN. 
HE  BLUNDER  OF  AN  INNOCENT. 
'ETER  A  PARASITE. 
THE   INVINCIBLE   AMELIA. 

.nstey  (P.).     A  BAYARD  OF    BENGAL. 
USten  (J.).     PRIDE  AND  PREJUDICE, 
lagot  (Richard).  A  ROMAN  MYSTERY. 
lASTING  OF   NETS. 
>ONNA   DIANA. 

lalfour   (Andrew).     BY    STROKE    OF 
SWORD. 

laring-Gould  (S.).    FURZE  BLOOM. 

HEAP  JACK   ZITA. 

:iTTY  ALONE. 

FRITH. 

'HE   BROOM   SQUIRE. 

N  THE   ROAR  OF   THE  SEA. 

rOEMI. 

.  BOOK  OF  FAIRY  TALES.    Illustrated. 

.iTTLE   TU'PENNY. 

HNEFRED. 

•HE   FROBISHERS. 

:HE  queen   OF   LOVE. 

.RMINELL. 

JLADYS  OF   THE  STEWPONEY. 

•HRIS  OF  ALL  SORTS. 

?arr  (Robert).    JENNIE  BAXTER. 
[N   THE  MIDST  OF  ALARMS. 
[■HE   COUNTESS   TEKLA. 
[he   MUTABLE   MANY. 

lenson  (E.  F.).    DODO. 
|HE  VINTAGE. 

ponte  (Charlotte).    SHIRLEY. 

fpownell   (C.   L.).      THE    HEART    OF 
JAPAN. 

arton  (J.  Bloundelle).    ACROSS    THE 
SALT   SEAS. 

iffyn    (Mrs.).     ANNE  MAULEVERER. 

ipes  (Bernard).    THE  GREAT  SKENE 
VIYSTERV. 

Ifford   (Mrs.  W.    K.).     A  FLASH  OF 
JUMMER. 
IRS.  KEITH'S  CRIME. 


Corbett    (Julian)      A 
GREAT   WATERS. 


KT 
BUSINESS     IN 


Croker  (Mrs.  B.  M.).    ANGEL. 
A   STATE   SECRET. 
PEGGY  OF  THE  BARTONS. 
JOHANNA. 


Dante    (Alighleri). 

COMEDY  CCary). 

Doyle  (Sir  A.   Conan) 

RED  LAMP. 


Duncan     (Sara   Jeannette). 
DELIGHTFUL  AMERICANS 


Eliot    (George). 

FLOSS. 


THE     DIVINE 
ROUND    THE 
THOSE 
THE   MILL   ON   THE 


Findlater     (Jane    H.).      THE    GREEN 
GRAVES   OF   BALGOWRIE. 

Gallon  (Tom).    RICKERBY'S  FOLLY.;*; 

Gaskell  (Mrs.).    CRANFORD. 
MARY    BARTON. 
NORTH   AND   SOUTH. 

Gerard    (Dorothea).      HOLY    MATRI- 

MO  NY. 
THE  CONQUEST  OF  LONDON. 
MADE  OF  MONEY. 

Glssingr(G.).   THE  TOWN  TRAVELLER. 
THE  CROWN  OF  LIFE. 


Glanville    (Ernest). 

TREASURE. 
THE  KLOOF  BRIDE. 


THE     INCA'S 


Gleig  (Charles). 


BUNTER'S  CRUISE. 
GRIMM'S 


Grimm     (The    Brothers) 
FAIRY  TALES. 

Hope  (Anthony).    A  MAN  OF  MARK. 

A  CHANGE  OF  AIR. 

THE    CHRONICLES    OF    COUNT 

ANTONIO. 
PHROSO. 
THE  DOLLY  DIALOGUES. 


DEAD  MEN  TELL 


Hornung  (E.  W.). 
NO  TALES. 

Hyne  (C  J.  C).    PRINCE  RUPERT  THE 
BUCCANEER. 


Ingrahara  (J.  H.). 
DAVID. 


THE  THRONE  OF 


30 


Methuen  and  Company  Limited 


L«    Queux    (W.).     THE   HUNCHBACK 

OK  WESTMINSTER. 
THE  CROOKED  WAY. 
THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW. 

Levelt- Yeats  (S.  K.).    THE  TRAITOR'S 

WAV. 
ORRAIN. 

Linton   (E.   Lynn).     THE  TRUE   HIS- 
TORY OF  JOSHUA  DAVIDSON. 

Lyall  (Edna).    DERRICK  VAUGHAN. 

Malet  (Lucas).    THE  CARISSIMA. 
A  COUNSEL  OF  PERFECTION. 

Mann    (Mrs.    M.    E.).      MRS.    PETER 

HOWARD. 
A  LOST  ESTATE. 

THE  CEDAR  STAR.  it-^C'rl^t^ 

THE  PATTEN  EXPERIMENT;^ '"^-^ 
A  WINTER'S  TALE.  ooO^     Jod'; 


MISER  HOAD- 


Marchmont   (A.  W.), 

LEY'S  SECRET, 
A  MOMENT'S  ERROR. 

Marryat  (Captain).    PETER  SIMPLE. 
JACOB   FAITHFUL. 

March  (Richard).  A  METAMORPHOSIS. 
THE  TWICKENHAM  PEERAGE. 
THE  GODDESS. 
THE  JOSS. 

Mason  (A.  E.  W.),    CLEMENTINA. 

Mathers  (Helen).    HONEY. 
GRIFF  OF  GRIFFITHSCOURT 
SAM'S  SWEETHEART. 
THE  FERRYMAN. 

Meade  (Mrs.  L.  T.).    DRIFT. 

Miller  (Esther).    LIVING  LIES. 

Mltford  (Bertram).  THE  SIGN  OF  THE 
SPIDER. 


Montr6sor  (F.  F.). 


THE  ALIEN. 
THE    HOLE 


IN 


Morrison   (Arthur). 
THE  WALL, 

Nesbit  (E.).    THE  RED  HOUSE. 

Norrls  (W.  E.).    HIS  GRACE. 
GILES  INGILBY. 
THE  CREDIT  OF  THE  COUNTY. 
LORD  LEONARD  THE  LUCKLESS. 
MATTHEW  AUSTEN. 
CLARISSA  FURIOSA. 

Ollphant  (Mrs.).    THE  LADY'S  WALK. 
SIR  ROBERT'S  FORTUNE. 


MASTER  OF  MEN. 
THE  POMP  OF 


THE  PRODIGALS. 
THE  TWO  MARYS. 
Oppenheim  (B.  P.). 

Parker  (Sir  Gilbert). 

THE  LAVILETTES.  "'■ 

WHEN  VALMOND  CA.ME  TO  PONTIAC 
THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SWORD. 

Pemberton    (Max).    THE   FOOTSTEPS 

OF  A  THRONK 
I  CROWN  THEE  KING. 
Phlllpotts  (Eden).    THE  HUMAN  BOY. 
CHILDREN  OF  THE  MIST. 
THE  POACHER'S  WIFE. 
THE  RIVER. 


% 


(A.    T.    QuIIIer  Coueh). 
HITE  WOLF. 


THE 


Ridge  (W.Pett).  A  SON  Oir  THE  STATE. 

LOST  PROPERTY. 

GEORGE  and  THE  GENERAL. 

A  BREAKER  OF  LAWS. 

ERB. 

Russell  (W.  Clark).    ABANDONED. 

A  MARRIAGE  AT  SEA. 

MY  DANISH  SWEETHEART. 

HIS  ISLAND  PRINCESS. 


THE  MASTER  OF 

i! 


Sergreant  (Adeline), 

BEECHWOOD. 
BALBARA'S  MONEY.  ] 

THE  YELLOW  DIAMOND.  ' 

THE  LOVE  THAT  OVERCAME.  ; 

(Mrs.    Alfred).    THE    KINSi 


Slderwlck 

MAN. 


Surtees  (R.  S.).     HANDLEY  CROSS. 
MR.  SPONGE'S  SPORTING  TOUR. 
ASK  MAMMA. 

Walford  (Mrs.  L.  B.).    MR.  SMITH. 

COUSINS. 

THE  BABY'S  GRANDMOTHER. 

TROUBLESOME  DAUGHTERS. 

Wallace  (General  Low).    BEN-HUR. 

THE  FAIR  GOD. 

Watson  (H.  B.  Marriott).    THE  ADVKN 

TURERS. 
CAPTAIN  FORTUNE. 
Weekes  (A.  B.).    PRISONERS  OF  WAl 
Wells  (H.  0.).    THE  SEA  LADY. 

Whitby  (Beatrice).    THE  RESULT  O 

AN  A    CIDENT. 


A    PASSIONATE    PIL- 
WUIJamson  (Mrs.  C.  N.).    PAPA. 


White  (Percy). 
GRIM. 


m 


PRINTED    BT 

UNWIN    BROTHBRS,    LIMITBD, 

LONDON    AND    WOKINO. 


I 


iw3(^1^4 


